Days May Not Be Fair
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly has some bad news. John and Mary will be there for her, but what about Sherlock?
1. Days May Not Be Fair

John was supposed to meet Sherlock in the lab at St. Barts at nine pm sharp. He waited by the doors, sighing angrily as he looked at his watch again. Obviously Sherlock had been distracted by something to keep him waiting twenty minutes. He was about to send him a text when the door down the dimly lit hallway slowly opened, and Molly Hooper appeared. Her hand, for lack of a better word, was grasping her left breast, and she looked pained.

"Molly?" she looked up, startled, hand dropping to her side. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing!" she answered quickly. "I mean, um…where is Sherlock? He said for me to meet him here after my break."

"I dunno, the doors to the lab are locked, so he can't be inside."

"I have the key," she said and reached into her pocket, fishing around for them.

Pushing on the heavy door, she winced, feeling the distinctive pinch in her chest and under her arm. John had not missed it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

"Yes I'm…" she stopped where she was, and then slowly shook her head. "I don't know if I am," she said finally, turning to face him. "John, you're my friend."

"Yes I am."

"And you would tell me the truth, no matter what?"

"Well, sparing your feelings of course-"

"No I mean, in a life or death situation, you would tell me the truth?"

"Yes of course I would- why? Are you in trouble?"

"No! I mean, I don't know- or rather," she fumbled with the buttons on her lab coat. "May I ask you a terribly awkward question? I only ask you because you're a doctor, you'll be honest with me."

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Can you tell me if you feel a lump in my breast?" He nodded his expression quite serious.

"Yes I can, would you rather go to your office?"

"Please," he stepped aside, getting the door for her before letting her lead the way down the hall back to her office. Shutting the door and tugging the blinds down, John turned around as she set her lab coat aside.

"Where exactly did you find it?" he asked.

"It's just here." Sure enough, John felt the rigid lump where Molly had directed him. He studied the skin and the indented nipple.

"You winced, when you pushed the door open, is it hard to lift things?"

"Any kind of weight it seems," she confessed.

"Any trouble with the right side?"

"No, mostly the left,"

"Have you noticed it increasing in size at all?" she didn't answer and he looked up at her. "Molly?" slowly, she nodded. "Molly!"

"I was scared!" she cried. "I know I should have gone sooner, I should have asked you sooner but I was scared!"

"Calm down," John soothed. He tugged her blouse over her front and she did up the buttons.

"What do you think?" she asked. He looked back at her.

"Cancer isn't my specialty, but we both know what to look for. You have several very distinct signs that concern me. I want you to make an appointment with your doctor, tomorrow, if possible. I'll make the call if you like." She shook her head, smiling bitterly.

"It runs in my family," she said. "I always knew it was pretty definite that I'd have it too." Leaning against the edge of the desk, she sighed heavily. "I'm thirty-four, for pity's sake."

"Better you take care of it now," John said, joining her at the desk. She nodded. "You know your options?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I always knew if it came to it I'd have a mastectomy," Molly answered. He nodded, quiet.

"Look, if you want someone with you…" he shrugged. "I know I'm not family but just so you know…you don't have to go through this by yourself. I'll be glad to go with you. Or Mary could go, I know she wouldn't object." Molly smiled at this.

"Thank you, I think- I think I'll take you up on that." He patted her hand before moving away from the desk.

"Come on, I'll buy you a coffee, we'll see if Sherlock hasn't shown up yet."

"I'm just going to run to the loo, I'll see you in the lab," she said, and he nodded.

The bathroom door shut behind her and she leaned against the door. She shouldn't be so surprised. Why was she shaking? Her aunts had it, her mother had it. Of course Molly would have it too. But they hadn't been alone in their battle, when her mother died, Molly was at her side. Now that her father was gone, Molly realized, not for the first time, she had no family. People needed family in times like this. She knew immediately that if it was cancerous, without a doubt, she'd have a mastectomy. Why risk it? Cut off the source and hopefully kill it. What if it didn't go away though? What if it cropped up again? What if she had to go through chemo? Her mind swimming with unanswered questions and fears, she grasped the edge of the sink, taking even breaths. All this worrying could easily turn into a panic attack for her, so she sat down.

A sudden, insistent pounding on the door made her jump.

"Molly! The lab is locked!" Sherlock called through the door.

"I'm coming," she answered. Quickly, she splashed water on her face, toweling off quickly before she opened the door. "Sorry, thank you for not picking the locks again,"

"I have made efforts to respect your lab rules, Molly," he said pleasantly and smiled at her. At this she stopped where she was, looking at him and then at John just behind him. Sherlock glanced back at the good doctor, then at Molly. "Oh please, I didn't need John to tell me about the pinch in your chest, or the fact that your left breast has increased in size on almost a weekly basis-"

"You were looking at my breasts?" Molly tugged at the front of her lab coat, turning somewhat red.

"You let John touch them, I fail to see how my noticing them-"

"He's a doctor, and he was looking for a lump!" Molly snapped.

"Sherlock, not the time," John said.

"Of course it isn't," Sherlock said briskly. "Molly is facing the possibility, more probable than not, of having breast cancer."

"Look, I'm going to see my doctor tomorrow, and I'll have a few tests done, can we just crack on for now, _please_?!" Molly snapped, pushing past them into the lab. John gave him a look that said "Shut up", and Sherlock for once, agreed that silence at this point was the best option for all.

**One Week Later**

John was brushing his teeth, glaring at the petrified feet in a mason jar in his medicine cabinet. Sherlock had run out of room wherever he had taken to storing his subjects, so now John's medicine chest was full of 'useless stuff', therefore prime for Sherlock to store his experiments. Rinsing his mouth, he put his toothbrush back in the holder and took the jar down.

"Sherlock, if you don't remove these and any other experiment you may have put in my room or bathroom, I will personally relocate them to the bins under my window!" His phone suddenly ringing cut off Sherlock's response. Setting the jar down on the bathroom counter, he swiped his thumb across the screen.  
"Morning Molly, what's up?"

"John, um," a sniffle. "My test results are in, they won't tell me over the phone." John knew what that meant. Doctors never told patients bad news over the phone.

"Molly," he began carefully. "Sit down, take a deep breath. I'm going to get dressed, and then I'll come and pick you up. We'll go together."

"Is that Molly?" Mary asked softly.

"Yeah," John nodded.

"Shall I get my coat?"

"Yeah, hang on, Molly, Mary wants to come along too,"

"I –oh, yes, that's fine, she really doesn't have to if she doesn't want to, its fine, I just-"

"Molly, Molly, hey, it's ok, I told you you're not going through this by yourself." Sherlock appeared out of John's room, arms full of jars, at the mention of Molly's name. He looked between Mary and John.

"What's wrong?" he asked loudly. Ah. The decorum of a six year old in church.

"Shh!" John snapped at him before turning back to the phone. "I'm coming over, yes; it's no trouble I promise. Should Sherlock come too?"

"_No!"_ they both raised their eyebrows at this, surprised.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock repeated, louder.

"_Nothing! Nothing for you to know about yet. Please come when you can,"_ And she hung up.

"Well that settles that," John said, pocketing his phone.

"No it doesn't," Sherlock said, irritated. "She is upset."

"Clearly," John replied. "We'll be back in a while,"

"I'm coming too,"

"No," John said. "She doesn't want you there yet," he tugged his coat on, cursing at the zipper before he straightened his collar. Sherlock stopped, his arms still full of jars. John was clearly worried. "I'll send you a text, I promise, but don't come snooping around Molly's, do you hear me? Not until she's ready to tell you."

**Doctor Clark's Waiting Room**

They sat in the waiting room with her while she filled out the paperwork, and he didn't start tapping his thumbs on the armrest until her name was called and she went to in.

"Do you want me to go in with you?" Mary asked, and Molly nodded, relief apparent on her face. Ten minutes ticked by, it felt like ages. He tried to watch the television in the waiting room, but that didn't prove to be very distracting. He nearly jumped out of his seat when the receptionist tapped him on the shoulder.

"Miss Hooper would like you to join her in the exam room," she said.

"Anything wrong?"

"I don't know sir," she replied and went back to her desk. "You'll find her in exam room twelve,"

"Thanks," he hurried through the door, down the hall. Knocking twice, he waited for Molly to call for him to come in. She sat, still in the cotton gown, hands clasped on her lap. Mary stood beside her, face almost pale as she studied the x-rays on the wall opposite.

"This is Doctor John Watson, he's my friend," Molly said. "John, this is Doctor Clark," they shook hands, and John retreated to Molly's side. Clark had placed up two x-rays on the board; a pen had circled a dark mass on both.

"We have just been examining the x-rays from her visit last week, she didn't want the official news until you were here," the doctor said. Molly reached for John's hand, and was surprised, (not totally though) to find it was already reaching for hers. Mary took her other, squeezing hard. "I'm afraid that it is malignant," he said. Molly bowed her head, gathering herself. She heard Mary gasp, knew she was turning to look at John. "We discussed the options briefly before," Doctor Clark went on. "But knowing your family history, your mother's especially, I would strongly recommend surgery, a double mastectomy, especially considering how invasive this tumor is."

"Yes," Molly was already nodding. "Yes I agree, as soon as possible." Doctor Clark was writing something in her file.

"Very well…there will be a few more appointments, a good deal of paperwork for you to read, preparations and so forth, I'd like the surgery to be sometime in early October, that's only," he looked at the wall calendar. "Four weeks away, it will give you the winter to recuperate." he paused. "I cannot guarantee that this surgery will prevent any secondary tumors arising, you realize this of course." Molly nodded again.  
"But it is my best option," and the doctor nodded.

"I'll leave you to dress, I'll see the receptionist about scheduling your next appointment," he said and quietly let himself out.

As soon as the door shut, Molly took a deep breath, covering her face with her hands. Mary soothed circles on her back, looking over her to John. She was trying hard not to cry.

"Even breaths, Molls," John soothed. "We're gonna be with you, every step,"

"It's fine," she said after a moment. "I know for sure now, that's partly a relief. And I _know_ I won't be alone in this," she grasped his hand, and he in turn squeezed.

"I'll let you get dressed," he said. Before he left, she hugged him, squeezing hard.

"Thank you, thank you for coming with me, both of you," she murmured.

"You don't have to be so strong all the time," he said, returning the embrace. "That's what we're here for, it's okay to step back and let someone else take care of you,"

"I know," she sniffled a little. "Thank you."

"I'll help you with your things," Mary said, wiping her nose quickly.

"No, I can do it, go ahead." She waited until the door shut before she finally let herself cry.

**221b Baker Street**

Mary took their coats up to the upstairs flat, promising to return to make tea.

"I'll have a drink just the same," John said and Mary nodded. 221b was open; clearly Sherlock was waiting for them to return. Just as well, that was there the bottle of scotch was. John dug around for it in the cupboard above the sink.

"Well?" he straightened, seeing Sherlock waiting in the kitchen, hands behind his back.

"Have you stood there all afternoon?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I've been cleaning out your medicine chest, incidentally, do you use this?" he held up a tongue scraper the dentist had given it to him him at his last cleaning.

"No, can't imagine what you want it for, but it's yours."

"It's ideal for scraping puss from-"

"That wasn't a question," Sherlock pocketed the tongue scraper, shrugging.

"How is Molly?" he asked. John sighed, hands on his hips. He turned to face the consulting detective.

"You're clever, haven't you figured it out?"

"Yes, but I'd rather hear it from you, well, Molly, but you'll do I suppose," Sherlock answered. Mary entered, waving hello to Sherlock before moving to the sink to put the kettle on. John shook his head, turning back to the cupboard.

"She's going to have the surgery." Mary bit her lip, still unused to the news; she looked worriedly from one man to the other.

"It is malignant." Sherlock said.

"Yes." John went back to the cupboard, pulled down the bottle of scotch he kept for situations just like this, and poured himself a finger. He motioned to the bottle for Sherlock, who only shook his head, already thinking.

"How is she?" he asked. John shuffled to his chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

"She's glad to know for certain now, trying to keep a brave face, but she's scared. She misses her family-"

"She doesn't have any reason to be frightened." Sherlock quipped. "Obviously. She has the best doctors in London, she'll have the surgery, and in seven months or so, she'll be back at St. Barts, hopefully not a permanent member of the morgue." John stared at Sherlock,

"Is there _any_ way for you to _not_ treat this situation as if you've surgically removed your feelings?"

"Shall I sigh pathetically at her and wear pink ribbons?" Sherlock asked.

"If you can't be an adult about this, then don't visit her," John said, quite seriously. "I mean it, Sherlock. She's scared, she's doing what she thinks is best, and she does not need your input on how her having a double mastectomy may not help at all. She's going to be fine."

Sherlock studied John carefully.

"You are worried about her."

"_Yes_, Sherlock, _geeze_," John said, quite upset. "I am very worried."

"If she has the surgery, then she'll be at a lower risk than her mother."

"And what if that doesn't work? Hm? What if the cancer comes back?"

"Then she'll have chemotherapy."

"And what if _that_ doesn't work, Sherlock?" Mary asked quietly, finally speaking up. "We have to consider these possibilities _now_, so that if we do have to face them later, we can be there for Molly when she isn't strong enough to."

"Molly is strong," Sherlock answered. John didn't speak for a moment. Sherlock was being stubborn, and he and Mary realized Sherlock did not want to face the possibility of Molly not pulling through.

"Yes she is," he said at last. "But not strong enough for this, not if she has to go at it alone. Which is why you need to show her your support, whatever way that is, I don't care, but just…be nice to her."


	2. That's when I'll Be There

In between appointments, filling out paperwork and the daily "Dear God this is actually happening," moments of panc, Molly still had work to do. She did try not to let it interfere with work, which was thankfully distracting enough and required enough of her concentration to put the whole "I have breast cancer and am losing my breasts in four weeks" situation on a back burner. Temporarily at any rate. The night shifts were the worst. She tried to concentrate on paperwork but even that was tedious and her mind drifted. What if she ended up habing to go through chemo? She wasn't afraid of losing her hair. She and Mary both knitted, they could find patterns for nice hats. She was afraid if having to go it alone. Yes, John and Mary would be there throughout, and they had been. One or the other had come with her to every appointment, been there to hold her hand or simply distract her from worrying. But every night she was alone with her thoughts and sleep was fleeting. Work at least had some kind of distraction, even if the nights were too quiet for her liking.

A cup cup was placed on her desk and she looks up from her notes, startled. There stood Sherlock.

"What's this?"

"Tea. I made tea," he answered. She looked at the steam curling up from the styrofoam cup.

"You don't make tea."

"Clearly I do."

"Oh. Well, thank you, that was good of you." She sipped gratefully of the strong brew, sighing.

"Long night?" he asked, seating himself.

"Mm, and tedious,"

"Let someone else have the night shift,"

"We all have to take one once a week," she yawned hugely. He shrugged, looking around her office. She could see he was clearly bored. "What are you doing here Sherlock?"

"Keeping you company," he replied. He stood and went round the desk, reading over her shoulder.

"Sherlock, these are confidential files!"

"Not any more, Oo this one died with an oozing rash, may I see him? I have an experiment-"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" His expression was the epitome of innocence, and Molly didn't doubt he had no idea that what he was asking was wrong.

"If you're going to keep me company, then you can help me file."

"Ugh. Dull."

"Yes, but it keeps me occupied," she stacked the folders, setting them in a pile on the corner of her desk.

"Occupied? Oh yes. Keeps you from thinking." He nodded. He watched her go back and forth between files and cabinets for a time, her expression seemed to wobble between earth-shattering bordome and the inability to direct her thoughts anywhere but the upcoming surgery. That would never do. "Where would you like these?" He asked, holding up a stack of papers.

"Are they lettered?"

"Yes of course they are." Without another thought he flung them into the air, papers fluttered around them, hopelessly mixed up.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried. "You absolute idiot, it's going to take me hours to organize them again! Some of these have court cases!"

"Dear oh dear, you'll have a time getting them back together," he commented. She looked up at him, glaring. He only smiled at her. "It's going to take up a good chunk of the evening at any rate." Molly looked back at him from where she sat on the floor. Shaking her head, she began to laugh.

"Only you, Sherlock, would be able to get away with this, now get down here, the least you can do is help me."

The remainder of her shift was spent on the floor of her office, meticulously going through the papers, making sure they all went into the appropriate files. Sherlock noticed with no small degree of smugness that Molly was concentrating on her work, not her surgery. When it came time for her to finally punch out, she was yawning, exhausted.

"Thank you for staying to help. It was not the most ideal distraction, having to re-file all those autopsies, but it did keep me busy."

"How many night shifts do you have left?"

"Two, one on Sunday, I'm filling in for Mike, and my usual on Friday."

"I'll see you Sunday then. Unless I have a case," he said. Molly found herself smiling a little at this.

"If you promise not to throw my filing all over the floor, then I'd be glad for the company."

"Not totally ineffective," he reminded her. "But I do have an experiment that requires an extra pair of hands if you can spare them." Molly pushed her hair out of her eyes, laughing.

"I'll see what I can do," she nodded. His expression fell,

"No, I meant, another pair of hands- your hands, help hold the -"

"Oh!" Molly realized then.

"-test tube, it's tricky with gloves and pliers," he paused. "Unless of course you were offering a spare set of hands as well,"

"You'll just have to come back on Sunday and see." She laughed. Before she could stop herself she rose on tip- toe, pressing his cheek. "Goodnight Sherlock, and thank you." He watched her head out into the street, hailing a cab as she went. He did not miss the wince she made as she raised her left arm, nor the twinkle in her eyes as she turned back, waving goodby one more time. He waved in response, smiling.

**Four Weeks Later**

The night before her surgery, John and Mary picked up Molly and brought her to Baker Street. She would be recuperating between their flat and Sherlock's, as they all lived at 221 now. John wanted to keep a close eye on her, so during the day she would stay with Sherlock and he would change her dressings and check the drains and so on until Mary came home. John would look after her at night. She'd sleep in 221b as Sherlock's couch was a pull-out sofa and John and Mary didn't have a spare room.

She wasn't allowed food after eleven pm, so by nine the dinner plates were washed and put away, and she was relaxing on the couch. She and Mary sat on the fold out bed, painting their nails and confiscating the remote from Sherlock. When John finally got off his shift at the hospital, he found all three of them in the living room, watching some Jane Austen nonsense, Sherlock shouting at the television while Mary painted Molly's toes, both of them giggling at the consulting detective.

"Molly, get the cat off the drapes, it's bad enough that I can't keep Sherlock from climbing them half the time," John said, setting his things down. The cat merely turned about from where he was perched, staring at him with wide, yellow eyes. "Why's he here anyway?"

"Molly's going to be recuperating here, and Toby can't be by himself," Mary said, she beamed at her husband, who only shook his head, giving her a peck on the lips.

"I could very well stop in on him once a week," Sherlock said.

"Once a week?" Molly frowned. "He'd have my flat an absolute mess."

"So you brought him here to destroy ours?" Sherlock retorted.

"Be nice." John cautioned.

"_You_ brought him here," Molly said.  
"_You_ insisted!"

"Lady losing her breasts tomorrow currently has the upper-hand on all arguments for the next six to eight weeks," Mary said, Sherlock sank deeper into his chair, scowling.

"Sherlock, your parcel came today," John handed him a box, along with the rest of his mail.

"Oh, good," He stood up, fetched a pair of scissors and handed it to Molly. "Here." Glancing at the others, and then at the box, she didn't know what to do at first.

"Um…thank you, Sherlock, that was very nice of you,"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Yes, of course," she cut the tape along the edges, handing him back the scissors. John came to sit beside Mary, both of them exchanging secretive smiles. Molly gave a delighted gasp, lifting from the packing paper a beautiful painted silk dressing gown.

"Yours is old and natty," Sherlock said, he seemed quite proud of himself that he'd thought up a present for Molly all by himself that she appreciated and indeed needed. "I assume you'll be wearing a robe a good deal of the time after surgery and won't want that old flowered thing, I already threw it out, which is why you were wondering why Mary couldn't find it to pack it."

"Ok, swiftly descending back into idiot," John cautioned. A knock on the open door made them all turn and call:

"Come in!"

Greg stepped in, scuffing his shoes along the rug, wiping off the rain from the streets below.

"Hey Molls, I can't stay, but I wanted to drop this off, they say it's good to hold something after surgery, so…" he handed her what he'd hidden behind his back. She laughed, taking the floppy plush animal from him.

"Thank you Greg," she said.

"That's not-"

"Shut up Sherlock," John cut him off before he could finish.

"Anyway," Greg turned back to Molly. "I'll try and stop by tomorrow after the surgery, see how you're doing."

"I can't promise I'll be coherent, but I appreciate the thought," Molly replied and stood up to hug him goodnight.

"Take care," he said into her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"For God's sake, she's having a simple mastectomy, not a lobotomy," Sherlock snapped.

"Be nice," Molly said. "Thank you Greg, goodnight,"

"Night Molls."

"I'm gonna jump in the shower, you need anything else before I go?" John asked and Molly shook her head. "Mary's here and Sherlock can fetch anything I need." This was all the incentive John needed and headed upstairs. "Mary, will you make Sherlock his tea? He won't ask you because he's still afraid of offending John."

"I can bloody well make my own tea."

"But you won't," Molly said with a smile. "Not if we're here." Mary got up, biting back a grin.

"I'll get you your tea, just a minute."

Sherlock stood by the couch, clearly wanting something. Molly looked up at him from the television.

"My head hurts." He informed her. She shifted down to the end of the couch, placing the stuffed animal on the arm rest, she patted her lap. Sherlock flopped onto the couch, sighing.

"Ow!" she winced, feeling the pinch in her chest as the couch moved under Sherlock's weight. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware. "It's fine; I should have told you to ease down onto the couch is all. Come on, probably the last time I'll be able to scratch your head in a while." He obeyed, shutting his eyes, hands under his chin as Molly carded her fingers through his dark curls.

"TV's too loud." She turned it down a few ticks. "I hate this show." Her hand stopped running through his hair.

"Sherlock," he cracked an eye open.

"Sorry." He mumbled, and relaxed again. Combing Sherlock's hair was the one thing that could keep the consulting detective from becoming an impossible wretch when headaches plagued him. Molly was the one Sherlock preferred, and as John flat-out refused, and Mrs. Hudson was not in a position to run upstairs every time he got a headache, Molly was the best candidate. Not that she minded, after all if it made Sherlock easier to get along with, why not? In a little while, Sherlock opened his eyes, realizing Molly had stopped combing his hair.

"Why've you stopped?" he murmured.

"She's asleep," Mary whispered, John was setting a mug of tea down.

"Get up, I'll tuck her in," he said. Sherlock got to his feet carefully so as not to rouse the sleeping pathologist. Rest was fleeting for Molly the past few weeks; John said it was imperative she get her rest the night before her surgery. Carefully, John eased her down onto the couch, tugging the blanket up over her that had been pushed aside earlier. Putting out the light, he paused, touching her head for a moment before sighing, turning back to Mary.

"Turning in, Doctor Watson?"

"Suppose I should," he nodded. "Yes, I'll be up in a bit."

"I'll go turn down the covers," she kissed him goodnight before padding quietly up the stairs. John turned from watching her go to see Sherlock tucking Molly in. He was surprised, observing the care he took in seeing Molly was properly tucked in and that the heating pad she slept on was plugged in, that she had water and her slippers were by the couch for her. Sherlock then tugged his chair closer to the couch so he could put his feet up on the arm rest. John paused in the hallway.

"You're staying up?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked up from the chair. "Oh. Yes. I suppose I am."

"You don't have to, you know. Mary and I are just down the hall from her."

"Hm." John waited a moment,

"Well if you're sure," he said finally.

"There's no reason why the surgery shouldn't be a success."

"You can't ever be certain with these things," John answered carefully. "But no, her case is thus-far pretty optimistic."

"If something goes wrong though," Sherlock began. "If it doesn't work and there are secondary tumors…"

"Yeah…" John looked at Sherlock, watching Molly's still form, hands between his knees. He seemed almost lost, and John felt quite sorry for him.

"You don't have to say anything," he said, still unmoving from his chair. "In fact I hope you won't."

"Look, Sherlock, I know you don't love Molly, not the way Mary or I do-"

"What do you mean 'not the way I do'?" Sherlock asked.

"Shh!" John hissed, glancing at Molly, who rolled over to face the back of the couch. "And you know very well what I mean; clearly you love her, more than a friend, obviously." John smirked, and Sherlock had a dreaded suspicion that his friend was about to launch into a tirade of reasons to prove his point. Eyes twinkling, John rocked back on his heels.

"John-"

"Oh, you have it coming, sonny-boy so you just shut up and listen," John cut him off. Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You have her medical file here, everything from dental records to her last check up. You follow her to her appointments; employ the use of Mycroft's sway in the government to make sure that everything possible is done, and exactly to procedure. Then there are the usual tells: you always get the door for her so the weight of it won't put pressure on her chest. You also keep two steps behind for a moment or two, which is _your_ not-so-subtle way of admiring her bum. 'I do not do that, John!' of course you do Sherlock; you're more obvious than Greg was at the Christmas party when Molly wore that dress that would defrock a minister," Clearly, John was having much too much fun mocking Sherlock, and using his own methods to boot! Sherlock didn't know whether to punch him or let him continue. He chose the latter, merely because he knew John had a tremendous right hook. "You go out of your way to touch her, hands, arms, small of her back. Your pupils dilated the last twelve times you two met up, whether at work or heading to an appointment. _You_ brought her cat here, despite the fact that you hate cats. You haven't broken into the lab since you got back from the Reichenbach case. You've gotten her coffee on six separate occasions, and ate twice when she brought you something on your last case."

John seemed to be reaching the crescendo of his deduction, face aglow, as Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrest.

"The last two times we all went out to eat you gave her your arm. Not a gesture of mere friendship but one that suggests something more intimate, yet nothing established. Respect then, for her perhaps wanting to keep the relationship friendly, as you haven't figured out if she still wants to pursue something with you. She does, by the way, I'll elaborate later," Sherlock made to interrupt, his expression, dare John suggest it, looking hopeful. "It's the other way around, she's worried the cancer won't clear up after this surgery and if she were involved with you it would only add further stress on you and you might grow distant as the illness took its toll on her. Therefore you both keep your distance as far as romance goes, however, with this new crisis coming to a head; both your defenses are down. I suggest, for the sake of time and circumstance, you get it over with and ask her out before it's too late." With that John took a breath, hands on hips. "Did I miss anything?"

"No…your deductions are correct," Sherlock got up, bringing his cup into the kitchen. John followed him, glancing swiftly back at Molly's still form. "You really observed all that?"

"Not all of it. I suggest you take up with Mary, next time you want to find out something, she's better than Mycroft." Sherlock snorted, though he did catalogue that particular thought away, just in case. "I don't bring it up to embarrass you, Sherlock."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Yes you are," John retorted.

"Uncomfortable,"

"Upset that I figured it out,"

"Annoyed at you prying-"

"_You_ pry!"

"Shh!" Mary hissed at them both, arms full of blankets. "If you two are going to bicker, do it in the hallway! She's going to hear you!" she went back upstairs, shaking her head. John and Sherlock followed meekly, leaving the door to 221b open.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm telling you this for Molly's sake, and even your own I suppose. If, God forbid, these are going to be Molly's last months, why not make them good for her? As good as you can make them."

"John, I couldn't make her happy, not the way she deserves to be. I'm not the type who throws gifts at their girlfriends, takes them to the pub on Saturdays and meets the family. I don't even remember to _feed_ myself half the time, how can I be expected to be a decent mate to her? You said yourself I lack any type of proper filter."

"Sherlock," John said, his voice just above a whisper for fear Molly would hear them. "You really haven't been paying attention to yourself the past few months have you? Did I not just say you've been trying to put Molly first? You get the door for her, you're respecting her first by not pursuing her until you're sure she wants to. You haven't broken any of her lab rules in weeks, that alone speaks volumes for you," Sherlock dared smile then. "You told me once she was the one who counted, the only one, the first one, if you care for her then prove it to her, before you lose her and you regret it for the rest of your life." Molly stirred in the living room and they both jumped, John shuffled back into the flat.

"What is it?" Sherlock heard him ask, followed by Molly's quiet response. "Yeah, I'll go get one, hold on."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Another blanket," before he could move, Sherlock was already heading for his room, pulling the down comforter off his bed.

"I can do it," he said when John reached for the blanket to cover Molly. John stepped back, amused and touched by the way Sherlock awkwardly tucked Molly in. His hands were steady, but his eyes were nervous, and he glanced at her now and again, worried she could see.

"I'm gonna head upstairs then, if you've got it," John said.

"Night John, ta," Molly waved her fingers just poking out from under the covers.

"Night Molls."

"Thanks for the blanket." She murmured.

"Hm."

"Was it yours?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes. Go to sleep Molly."

"I can't keep your blanket, you'll get cold."

"Hardly," Sherlock answered. He seated himself in his chair, propped his feet up on the end of the pull-out bed and tucked his feet under the blanket.

"You're going to stay there all night?"

"I won't sleep tonight. I'm working on a case."

"Are you? You didn't say."

"Hm. It came up yesterday. Barely a four but Lestrade is insisting. I'll give him my answer in the morning."

"Shouldn't you call him right away?" Sherlock opened an eye. "You have figured it out, since it's only a four."

"Yes of course I have," he replied.

"Then you should phone Lestrade tonight." He frowned pursing his lips.

"No. Dull. He can wait. Incidentally, after the operation, may I have your breasts?"

"What?!"

"I actually don't need them both, just the left one. I want a sample of the tumor and surrounding tissue for study."

"Sherlock, there isn't one thing different about this tumor than any other that you can quite easily study in a book or the morgue. Besides the doctor will need it for his own samples."

"Very well not the left one, may I have the right?"

"That one doesn't have a tumor,"

"Inconsequential. I have another experiment I'd like to try."

"On…breasts?" Molly blamed her father and his life-long school-boy humor that he instilled in her. John for his part only encouraged it and both of them were endlessly sending each other pictures of signs or quotes that were easily misconstrued. It drove Sherlock mad. As was her urge to giggle at this moment.

"Stop it," he answered. "And yes."

"Why mine though? Can't you get some from the morgue?"

"Not while you're out on leave, unless I have your permission to take your keys and root around the morgue myself."

"Absolutely not," she said. "Fine, yes, I suppose you can have the right one. I'll talk to Doctor Clark tomorrow before I go under."

"Thank you Molly. Goodnight."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"Go put a pair of socks on or get your feet off mine, you're freezing!" Sherlock bounded for the bedroom, returning in a few moments having grabbed two different socks, (one grey and one argyle). "That's charming," she laughed.

"Hm? Oh. Shut up Molly."

"I will, but only because I'm tired." And she curled deeper under the coverlet. In a while her breathing evened out and Sherlock knew she'd fallen asleep. This seemed to be the cue for Toby to come down from the mantle, padding across the living room and onto Sherlock's lap.

"Shoo," he muttered. Toby only turned around thrice, kneading his claws into Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, purring noisily. "In your own time!" he snapped and Toby sniffed at him, turned around once more and then lay down on his lap. After a moment, Sherlock reached into his pocket and tapped out a quick text to John.

"_Really? It's 2AM Sherlock. I know you finished that case for Lestrade already."_

"_Yes I did. I have a question."_

"_What?"_

"_Is it rude to ask Molly if I can have her breasts for an experiment?"_

"_WHAT?!" _

"_I believe my previous text was perfectly clear."_

"_What is WRONG with you?! YES it's rude! Don't ask her."_

"_Hm."_

"_Oh God, you asked her already didn't you? What did she say?" _

"_She didn't seem insulted when I asked. Perturbed. No. Not perturbed…curious? Perhaps she was curious. Should I include her on the experiment?"_

"_No. No. No. No. NO. Tomorrow you tell her you're not taking her breasts home with you for an experiment. I forbid it. If Mary were awake she'd forbid it, and Mrs. Hudson would forbid you and hit you upside the head with her kettle."_

"_Molly already promised me the right one." _

"_Cripes and criminy. You beat all, you know that? Most guys, when they want to make an impression on a girl they fancy, they buy her flowers, compliment her dress, they don't ask for her breasts."_

"_I was given to understand that was a custom reserved for a third date."_

"_Go to bed Sherlock." _


	3. Always

**The Next Day**

Molly was up early, trying hard not to smell John and Mary's breakfast wafting downstairs. Sherlock, for his part, seemed intent not to eat.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked. He wasn't on a case at the moment, so breakfast would certainly be on his agenda.

"I ate while you slept," he replied, shutting off the blow-torch he was directing at a rather large eyeball. "You can't eat until after the surgery," he said, seeing her confused expression.

"Oh," she realized he meant he hadn't wanted to eat in front of her while she couldn't even have tea. "Well, thank you, I can't promise I'd have been able to resist an egg this morning." she laughed. Her stomach growled noisily at the mention of food. "All in good time," she muttered. "I'm going to get dressed, do you need the bathroom?"

"No."

"Is that from the morgue?" she asked, nodding to the eyeball he'd skewered. He tugged it off the fork with a pair of tongs, squeezing lightly, testing its resiliency.

"It was in my freezer for a while, not to fear Molly, I haven't taken anything you haven't already given me."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Your brother is here-"

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft was already pushing past her.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, frowning. He pulled his gloves off, setting his goggles and the torch aside.

"I wouldn't use that torch for more than twenty minutes on that," Mycroft nodded to the eye.

"That doesn't answer my question." Mycroft smiled indulgently, setting the tip of his umbrella down.

"Miss Hooper, how are you this morning?"

"Well as to be expected," she said, having gotten over the shock of Mycroft recognizing her prescence in the room.

"Yes, I thought so," he quirked an eyebrow. "Well, as Sherly has probably deduced, but only asked for your benefit, I'm here because I supposed you would prefer a more comfortable means of conveyance to the hospital." Molly blinked, turned from one Holmes to the other.

"You…came to give me a ride?"

"It is more comfortable than a taxi," he said. "At your leisure, Miss Hooper, although I shouldn't dilly-dally too long, your surgery is in an hour and thirty minutes." Molly dashed off to the bathroom as Sherlock turned to face his brother. Mycroft only smiled, teeth gleaming.

"What are you up to?"

"I'm being…nice."

"'Nice' isn't your forte," Sherlock scowled.

"You're one to talk," Mycroft replied. "I told you before," he tapped the tip of his shoe with his umbrella. "Sentiment benefits no one." Sherlock said nothing, narrowing his eyes. "Of course you like having friends now…don't you?"

"How's the diet, brother-mine?" Sherlock changed the subject, deciding his relationship with Molly was the last thing he wanted to discuss with Mycroft.

"Come-come, I'm not scolding you Sherly, I'm merely trying to ascertain why you wish to pursue Miss Hooper? Is it because she has cancer?" Sherlock looked insulted then,

"No of course not!"

"Hm," Mycroft made a curious face. "Well then, I can only assume you fear the worst and wish to pursue something with her before it is too late, if it does ever come to that point." They looked at each other for some time, listening as the tap ran in the bathroom and the sound of Molly getting ready. "I'm offering my support, Sherlock," Mycroft said finally. His brother looked surprised. "Don't be so shocked, you need looking after, Miss Hooper seems to be the most ideal candidate. Therefore it's imperative her health needs are met."

"You mean because of her assistance during the Reichenbach case."

"I mean because she is the only one to talk sense into you when you are senseless, which is becoming more and more frequent."

"What do you mean, 'support'?" Sherlock asked.

"Her medical expenses will be taken care of; I'd advise you to convince her to let her flat go,"

"Why?"

"Because her landlord has already been informed she's let it go,"

"Mycroft!"

"If you expect to get anywhere with Miss Hooper, she'll need to be much closer, besides she cannot reside alone for the next six or seven months at least. The downstairs flat across Mrs. Hudson's should do nicely for her once she gets back on her feet. Shall I speak to her, or will you?"

"Speak to me about what?" Molly asked, reappearing.

"You're moving," Mycroft said. Sherlock glared at his brother.

"What?!"

"Your old flat was…infested." Sherlock added lamely.

"With what?" The Holmes brothers glanced at each other. "Well…where am I supposed to go?"

"Mrs. Hudson has a flat downstairs," Sherlock answered. "By the time you're recovered it will be fixed up very nicely, I'm sure."

"Oh…well…thank you, I think…" she frowned. She was too tired and stressed to worry about what really happened to her flat. At any rate she didn't expect to be seeing it any time soon after her surgery.

"Hey Molls," John knocked on the open door. "Ready to go? Mary just called the cab."

"Mycroft will take us," Molly said, and John looked surprised. "Isn't that nice of him?"

"Yes, also suspicious."

"Can't I be generous, Doctor Watson?"

"Only when you want something," Sherlock picked up Molly's overnight bag before she could take it, and stepped aside, letting her pass ahead of him.

"Subtlety, Sherlock," Mycroft cautioned and his brother threw him a withering look before hurrying down after her. John and Mary were already heading downstairs to the waiting town car.

**St. Barts Hospital**

Sherlock got to his feet, waiting for Mary and John to bid Molly one last quick goodbye, promising they'd be there when she woke up before they ducked out and he shut the door after them.

"I'm glad you came along," Molly said.

"I am certain that you are aware my being here will neither help nor hinder your operation. However, I am here because you – " at this he stopped. He didn't know how to proceed. Was she his friend? Was she more? Friend for now…obviously.

"I did forget to speak to the surgeon, you're right," Molly said.

"What?"

"About my right breast. You want it for your experiment."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you. No, that wasn't what I was going to say, I came because it is important to you, that…friends are here." Molly's expression changed, she stared at him, quite surprised. She looked at the tube going in her arm, the anesthesia wasn't flowing yet so she wasn't hallucinating or dreaming this.

"You- you're here for me?" she asked.

"Well no one else is having an operation." She smiled then, truly smiled, and Sherlock thought that she should do so more often.

"Can you get the pen from my overnight bag please?" He crossed the room, digging through her articles of clothing and toiletries until he found the black sharpie. Handing it to her, he watched, amused as she tugged at the collar of her gown, frowning as she wrote upside-down "Give to Sherlock" on her right breast. "That way if I forget to tell them before I go under," she explained and he almost laughed. He stepped forward, bending over her and pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"Most basic mastectomies last one-hundred and eighty minutes, I expect you to be out and in recovery by eleven-thirty, Miss Hooper. Don't be late."

"This is certainly a roundabout way of getting into the labs," Molly laughed. She sobered when she saw the teasing in Sherlock's eyes disappear. He rested his forehead against her own for just a moment. Molly didn't know why he did it, nor exactly how long, but she decided if it was to be one of the last moments alone with Sherlock, this would be one to cherish. He straightened quickly, stepping aside as the nurse knocked on the door.

"Just about to switch the anesthesia on and in a few minutes we'll wheel you in. Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said shakily. She looked down at her chest and almost laughed. "Well now you can't say my boobs are too small, Sherlock,"

"I never said I disliked them," he retorted.

"What-"

"Count down from one-hundred please, Miss Hooper," the nurse turned back to Sherlock. "You can stay until she falls asleep."

"One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight," the nurse disappeared again, Sherlock glared after her. Did this woman have no regard for her patient?! "'M scared, Sherlock," he turned to look at Molly. Eyes watery and her face pale, her breathing was shallow as the anesthesia began to take effect.

"You're going to be fine," he reassured her. But when she reached for his hand, he didn't brush it aside. And if he squeezed her fingers, she didn't mention it. She went under still holding his hand. He was aware the nurses were unlocking the brakes on her gurney. He was forced to let go when they began wheeling the bed out of the room. He watched her disappear through the swinging doors, the nurse reminding him that he could see her in post-op afterwards.

John came to stand beside him, hands in his pockets.  
"You okay?"

"What?"

"I said are you okay?"

"Fine…" Sherlock blinked quickly. "I'm fine. And she will be too,"

"Yes she will," John pulled out a set of keys, handing them to Sherlock.

"What's that?"

"Keys to the lab, Molly told me to give them to you, she said you had a few cultures in there you hadn't checked on in a few days." He took the key ring from John, staring at them, and then back at the closed doors to surgery. "You know she trusts you, giving you these," John said. "Don't…don't do anything stupid, yeah?"

"No I won't." He pocketed the keys, sweeping down to the stairway.

"Elevator is the other way."

"Correct as always John," Sherlock called back, heading down the stairs anyway. He didn't want to put himself in an enclosed space for the time being. He'd end up pulling apart the wiring.

In the waiting room, Mary pulled out her knitting.

"Old woman," John snorted,

"You laugh," she brandished a needle at him. "At least it will keep my hands busy."

"Hm." He found the remote to the television, switching the channel.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Lab, he had a few things he wanted to check on."

"Molly gave him the keys?"

"She did. Can't blame her. It wouldn't do him any favors to sit here for three hours doing nothing."

"Won't do you any good either," John looked over at his wife, who only smiled at her careful knitting.

"Is there something you want?"

"Tea," she beamed at him.

"Alright," he got to his feet.

"And a few biscuits, I'm famished," she said, tapping his arm as he got up.

"Famished, we just ate breakfast!"

"That was an hour ago at least," she waved her hand. "Biscuits, or a bag of crisps, you know what I like."

"Alright, but only coz I love ya,"

"Mm," he bent and kissed her.

"Back in a mo," he said.

~O~

Sherlock studied his cultures for a good two and a half hours before he decided it was sufficient time for Molly to have been in surgery. He cleaned the petri dishes he used, labeled the new ones he'd filled and made sure to put the light out on the microscope and wipe it down. He locked the lab up and fairly jogged upstairs, whistling to himself.

"There you are, wondered where you'd got to," John said, looking up from the TV. "Keys?" Sherlock dropped them into his open palm.

"Cleaned and locked," Sherlock confirmed and sat down. "When may we see Molly?"

"I expect when the Doctor comes and says we can," Mary said. Sherlock blinked.

"You mean she isn't out yet?"

"Uh…no, well it's only been," John looked at his watch. "Two and a half hours…surgery can take three hours sometimes."

"Yes. Sometimes," Sherlock frowned. "What could be taking so long?"

"It's surgery," John said. "Each one is different."

"The technique is the same for each," Sherlock answered.

"Maybe he wants to be careful," John replied. "Your brother probably had one of his henchmen strong arm the doctor or something."  
"Humph."

Thirty-five minutes passed and by then Sherlock was standing on a couch in between another family, glaring at the painting on the wall.

"Um, excuse me," the man tapped John on the shoulder. "Can you get your friend down?" John chuckled.

"Look, this is the least offensive thing he can be doing right now,"

"Molly Hooper's clan?" a nurse appeared. Sherlock leapt from the couch, stepping over the coffee table and tipping a chair, riding down until it hit the floor, stepping neatly over the back and up to the nurse.

"Yes?"

"Are you gonna pick that up?" John was already setting the chair to rights as Mary set her knitting back in her bag.

"Sorry, yes, Molly Hooper, how is she?" John asked.

"She's fine, surgery went beautifully-" Sherlock pulled a face.

"Beautifully- on a mastectomy-"

"Shut up Sherlock,"

"She's resting comfortably right now, she'll be in post-op for another half hour, just checking over a few things, and then you can see her."

"_Half an hour-"_ Sherlock nearly bellowed.

"Sherlock-"

"Thirty minutes-"

"Sherlock-"

"We've been here for three hours already- what do they need to check on-"

"Sir I understand you're upset-"

"Sherlock, sit down, _now_," John ground out. Mary touched his arm, squeezing lightly. "Molly's okay," he said, calmer now as Sherlock headed back to the chairs. Mary moved her things over so he could sit. "The surgery went fine, they said,"

"She's alone in there. She's going to wake up alone." He muttered. John and Mary only exchanged worried looks, sighing.

The first thing Molly heard was the monitor beside her beeping, a soft voice above her, it sounded like the nurse from before.

"There she is, welcome back Miss Hooper." She tried to speak but her tongue felt heavy and awkward in her mouth. Everything was numb, her chest felt as if ice had been packed on it. Just, cold and numb and stiff. Just for a moment, she wondered where she was and then remembered.

"_Stupid, Molly," _she thought, and felt tears roll down her cheeks. What a stupid thing to cry for. There were worse things in life than losing your breasts. _"Starvation, war, child abuse, abandoned animals, if Moriarty survived- uuugh my chest hurts,"_

"Your friends are here," the nurse said. She turned back to the open curtain. "One at a time, please, and you'll only be able to stay for a minute, she needs her rest before we move her to her room."

John was first, he looked at her chart, peeked at the dressings and drains to be sure they weren't causing irritation yet and looked at the monitor next to the bed.

"They said it went well," he said quietly. He saw her cheeks were wet and he dug around in his pocket for his kerchief, wiping her eyes. His smile was warm and comforting. "Sherlock's been absolutely maddening the past hour, but he insisted I come in first; make sure they took care of you." Molly smiled a little, still feeling her cheeks were wet. "I'll get Mary, she wants to just say hello," John squeezed her hand, smoothing her hair before he ducked out, nodding for Mary to go ahead. Mary bent, kissing Molly's forehead. She couldn't speak at all, but she smiled bravely at the pathologist.

"Sherlock will kill me if I take too long, we'll be waiting for you when you wake up properly," Mary said at last and stepped out. The light was blocked from the open curtain, Sherlock towering there. His coat hung on his arm, he looked tired.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" he asked. She blinked back tears, looking up at him. He was so good to stay for the whole operation. It must have been mind-numbingly boring for him. Everyone was being so nice to her, she wished she could thank them all properly, but at the moment, the morphine was wearing off, and her chest was beginning to hurt like hell and all she could think of was that she wouldn't fit any of her blouses anymore. Perhaps it was just the anesthesia, but when Molly opened her mouth to at last speak, she said the only thing, the first thing that popped into her head:

"I miss my boobs." Sherlock did his best to fight back a smile.

"That's to be expected. But the outcome of this operation will be far better than keeping them."

"I know," she sniffled, still feeling her brain was dull and listless. "Still miss them,"

"If it makes you feel any better you can look at the right one any time you want." She tried to laugh at that, but her chest ached too much. Sherlock saw and called for John.

"She'll need another dose, I'll find the nurse," he said, having looked at Molly.

The nurse returned in a moment, having administered the morphine, glanced between Sherlock and John.

"One of you can stay with her while she rests if you like," she said. Sherlock looked immediately to John.  
"It should be you, of course, you're a doctor," he said.

"Are you sure? I don't mind waiting here with Mary," John said.

"You're just as worried about her."

"Yes, but I'm sure of the surgeon, you aren't." John smiled comfortingly at his friend. "You stay with her; it'll do her good knowing you care." Sherlock's expression changed to one of genuine surprise, almost frowning at John. Why wouldn't Molly know he cared?

**One Week Later**

Molly was released from the hospital two days after her operation and Sherlock, to her great surprise, was more crotchety and fussy than ever, she thought at first it was because the doctor had refused to give him her breast (something about paperwork or some such nonsense) but it wasn't until she realized he was shouting at everyone _but_ her. A week in Baker Street, and so far, he'd been a very good day nurse. He helped her lay down on the floor so she could practice her deep breathing exercises, reminded her when to (carefully) lift her arms three times a day and made sure she was well fed, which meant bellowing down to Mrs. Hudson, who was a darling and was very happy to cosset Molly and keep her wrapped in afghans and wristlets. Sherlock was quite happy to change her drains, check her dressings and help her up to use the toilet.

"Stitching is very good," he said on Friday, six days since the surgery. He admired the surgeons work.

"Often as I dreamt of you admiring my chest, this isn't how I envisioned it." She said, wincing as he changed the bandages for fresh ones.

"Saucy today," he commented, offering her a smile. She grimaced again as he peeled back the old bandages. "Sorry, did that hurt?"

"A little, that's to be expected." He took hold of the drainage tube where it protruded from her tender skin. With his other gloved hand, he squeezed the tube flat, sliding his fingers down until it pushed all the fluids into the bulb. At eye-level, he held the measuring cup, emptying the bulb of the lymphatic fluid.

"Good day today, two centimeters, same as yesterday." He wrote down her total thus-far. She leaned back when he was finished, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"No I'm not alright. It hurts, it hurts Sherlock. I'm scared, I'm tired, it feels as if someone has been dancing on my chest and I can't have another painkiller for four more hours." Sherlock didn't know what to do. It would be unsafe for her to take another dose too early. "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts," she groaned. "I know I'm whining but it hurts and I can't do anything about it," she said and began to cry. Confused as to what to do, he pulled out his phone,

_Molly is in pain. What do I do? _

_SH_

_Did you give her a painkiller?_

_JW_

_No. Too soon. She has four hours to go before she's allowed another._

_SH_

_Try and distract her._

_JW_

_She's crying, John, what do I do?_

_SH_

_Comfort her. Get her to hug that pillow-pet thing that Greg got her. It will help. Just stay with her._

_JW_

Molly kept her eyes shut, wishing the throbbing in her chest would go away. Or that she could simply pass out so she couldn't feel it anymore. She felt something soft placed over her, then her hands lifted and wrap around it so she was hugging it.

"John says to hold onto that," Sherlock's voice was soft.

"Where's Toby?"

"I don't know, I'll go find him," she listened as his footsteps retreated out of the living room and down the hall. In a few moments the cat was placed at her side. Toby, for his part, seemed to understand his mistress was upset and began arching and mewing against her legs before he finally curled up on her lap, fairly vibrating as he purred.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"You're still in pain," he observed.

"Yes, but there's nothing I can do about it for now. Just…talk to me."

"About what?"

"I don't know, anything."

In two hours, Mary came home to see Sherlock standing at the stove, animatedly talking to Molly, apparently describing one of his favorite experiments. Molly, for her part, was somewhat lethargic due to the painkillers, but she was giggling as Sherlock waved the spatula around one moment, cursing and bellowing at the stove as hot grease splattered his hand.

"Uh…hi." Mary said. Sherlock turned from dishing up whatever he was cooking onto Molly's plate.

"Hello," they both answered.

"What are you doing?"

"I think that's rather obvious." Sherlock frowned. "Molly cannot cook. She was hungry, and Mrs. Hudson is out."

"So…you're cooking. You cooked. Dinner." Sherlock didn't seem to follow Mary's train of thought (or lack thereof).

"Yes…"

"You can't cook."

"No, I simply choose not to. Molly didn't want take-away, and we're out of things for sandwiches. Incidentally, you and John are out of a few things."

"What things?"

"Eggs, flour, pasta, milk-"

"I'll run to market," Mary said with a sigh, heading back downstairs.

In another two hours, John would be home, and as the sight of the surgical drains made Mary terribly ill, the task was left to Sherlock and John, neither of whom minded. Rather, Sherlock did the bulk of it, enjoying the time spent with Molly. She let him study the fluid after he measured it and let him poke and prod her bandages (within reason). He didn't mind playing nurse. Not really anyway. But it meant he could take care of Molly because she needed him. It was nice to be needed.

"Once she's well enough, she's going to have to start some simple exercises, to gain the strength in her chest and arms again." John said that evening.

"I can help with that," Mary volunteered.

"I will," Sherlock said authoritatively. "You have work during the day, as do you, John. Honestly, how you can go about your dull jobs when Molly is sitting on the couch writhing in agony is beyond me."

"I am not-" Molly began, then sighed, waving her hand at him to continue. John and Mary knew Sherlock was exaggerating.

In another week she went to her doctor so he could look at her stitches. Sherlock accompanied her, feeling that the doctor was now encroaching on his territory, as he'd been looking after Molly and there was not one thing wrong with her stitches or her drains.

"Very nicely done," the doctor commented. "If I do say so myself."

"When do the stitches come out?" Molly asked.

"A few more weeks, for now, very, very easy movement, keep practicing your deep breathing, you remember how high to hold up your arms?" Molly demonstrated, lifting her arm just above her heart, wincing. "Very good, hug a pillow or a stuffed animal when you sleep, which should be on your back, and plenty of rest. You're keeping up on the drains I see,"

"Yes, Sherlock has been taking very good care of me,"

"Good," the doctor smiled at Sherlock, who forced out a half smile. It was ridiculous. The doctor was only telling them what they already knew!

"Be nice, Sherlock, he's only doing his job," Molly said as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"Hmph."

"You're doing a wonderful job," she said after a moment. "Really, thank you, it's very nice of you to take care of me,"

"Scotland Yard has obviously been slow," he waved dismissively. "But…I am glad to help."

"Do you ever get tired of it?" she asked suddenly. "Being needed, I mean?"

"Do you?" he turned to her. She looked surprised.

"What? Me? I'm not needed."

"Yes you are." She looked up at him, and he opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. For a moment, Molly didn't know what to do. Plucking up the courage, she pulled her hand from her pocket, reaching for his. He let her, and after a moment of comfortable silence, he stroked his thumb over the top of her hand.

**Some Weeks Later**

John was coming up the stairs, arms full of groceries. Laughter was heard from 221b, and his curiosity got the better of him, he set the bags down on the landing. He raised his hand to knock on the open door, peering in. Molly stood in the living room, arms outstretched, moving them in small circles

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" she complained. Sherlock stood just behind her, rosining the bow to his violin, he glanced up from the instrument as she pulled a face, clearly hurting. Sherlock began to play in time to her exercises, nodding hello to John.

"Five more minutes and you can stop," he said, paying no heed to an absolutely hysterical Mary, who held her camera up, happily taking a video of the whole affair.

"What's going on?" John asked, unable to stop himself from smiling.  
"Sherlock is torturing me," Molly said, grimacing.

"Doctor Clark gave her a sheet of exercises to do once a day, to build up her strength," Sherlock said.

"I hate you all!" Molly snapped irritably.

"No you don't, you love us," Mary said, still giggling.

"What do you have to do? Just, rotate the arm?" John had pulled off his jacket, watching the simple movement.

"This is the easy one," Mary said. "She has to stretch her arms,"

"Feel like I'm cleared for takeoff," John laughed, imitating Molly's exercise.

"Aww, that's nice," Mary said, filming the two of them.

"I'll do the rest of them with you," John promised and Molly smiled her thanks. "Sherlock will too, he seems to be doing well enough, giving orders, you come do this,"

"Yes!" Mary laughed, turning the camera to the consulting detective.

"Hm. No."

"Yes!" Mary insisted, she held the camera with one hand, taking the violin and bow from Sherlock and tugging him over to where Molly and John stood. "Arms up, come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting Mary position him before she stepped back to fit all three of them in the frame. "Oo that's charming, come on, Sherlock smile!"

"Aren't I?" he asked sarcastically, slowly rotating his arms. He watched Molly, who was bent on concentrating on her exercises, determined to finish them. The timer went off and Sherlock let his arms drop to his sides. "Thank God,"

"There's more we have to do," John said, looking at the exercise sheets, "Gonna need a small stick, or a broom handle for this one,"

"Sherlock!" pounding feet on the stairs made them all jump. "Sherlock are you home?" Lestrade came barreling up to the doorway, gasping for breath. "You need to come with us, now, there's a case!"

"There always is," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, you don't understand, someone is digging up bodies."

"Bodies?" he frowned.

"Yeah, corpses, dressing them in different clothes, leaving them in public, doesn't make sense."

"The good ones never do," Sherlock's interest was piqued. He snatched up his coat. "Come along John, the game is on!" Lestrade grinned, jogging down the stairs. "Meet us at Gladstone Park!" Sherlock slid to a stop, John almost running into him. He swiveled and turned back to Molly.

"I'll be fine, Mary's here, my drains don't need changing for a while more, I can do it myself if need be," Molly said, already seeing where his train of thought was leading. She set the broom handle against the table and took a couple bags of crisps off the counter. "Take these, you haven't had supper, and here," she handed him a bottle of water. "Keep hydrated, you do an awful lot of running on these cases," She smiled up at him and John and Mary were having an entire conversation between them without saying a word. Good heavens, Sherlock was looking to Molly for permission to go on a case! Molly tugged on the end of his scarf. "Go on then, Mary and I have exercises to do. You've got a criminal to catch!" he nodded, hurrying out the door and down to the street, John close behind. "And I want all the details about it later!" she shouted after them. The door opened again, and Sherlock shouted back

"Don't be stupid Molly, who else would I tell?" before it slammed behind them.


	4. Not just for an hour

The case kept Sherlock busy for almost a month. John and Mary were amused, watching the World's only Consulting Detective torn between taking care of Molly and wanting desperately to solve the case. Eventually some kind of schedule was worked out and he managed to do both (not without falling asleep halfway up the stairs in 221b at least three nights in a row).

Molly, for her part, was slowly on the mend, carefully practicing her exercises every day and minding her doctor's orders to get plenty of rest. It was almost February, and her stitches were long gone, as were the drains (finally! Though Sherlock didn't seem terribly happy to give up that time spent with Molly.) Mrs. Hudson had just popped in for dinner with her, Mary was actually needed to help Sherlock and John that night on the case, so the landlady was perfectly happy to spend time with Molly in 221b.

"I expect they'll be quite late coming home," Mrs. Hudson said, drying the last dish and setting it up in the cupboard.

"Oh that's not where it goes," Molly made to reach but winced, letting her arm drop.

"Are you hurt?"

"I just keep forgetting I can't reach very high right now," she sighed. "The plates are fine there; I'll fetch the step stool and move them tomorrow." Her recovery time would be anywhere from one to two years, and for Molly, it seemed like an eternity. She hated being so limited. The pain was not nearly so bad now, but some days it seemed she'd never be back to herself again. Until she got use of her arms the way she used to, she could hardly return to St. Barts. Still, at least she could keep busy with the progress being made on her flat downstairs across from Mrs. Hudson. It was torn apart at the moment, construction workers were dealing with the mold problem. The floors and walls and pipes were being replaced, new appliances for the bathroom and kitchen as well. Mrs. Hudson was looking forward to having Molly live across from her, and happily brushed aside the racket the workers made pulling up the floors and carting away the refuse.

"If that's all, I'll turn in," Mrs. Hudson said, setting the towel on the rack. "I'm absolutely done in today, this January cold-snap is wretched for my hip,"

"Goodnight then," Molly kissed her cheek, thanking her for dinner. She promised the old woman to send for her if she needed anything but doubted she'd have to.

After a good soak in the tub, she changed into her soft pyjamas and the robe Sherlock had given her before padding back into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Suddenly, there was a quiet _tap-tap-tap_ on the door. Molly looked up from the television, startled. It was almost ten 'o'clock at night. Who on earth could that be at this hour?! Setting her knitting aside she shuffled her feet into her slippers, crossing over to the door.

"Molly Hooooooooooperrrrrrrrrrrrr-"

"What the-" she unlocked the door, pulling it open to find a very strung-out Sherlock hanging on his brother. "Sherlock!"

"Molly!" he saluted her.

"Apologies for the inconvenience to you Miss Hooper," Mycroft grunted helping his brother through the door, she shut it behind them.

"Put him on the couch,"

"Exactly where I had in mind," he said and half dragged Sherlock.

"Sherlock what have you done?" she asked mournfully, watching as he unsuccessfully tried to pick his feet up.

"M'fine, Molly Hooper." Sherlock muttered, batting at the air.

"What on earth is the matter with him?" she felt as if the bottom of her stomach had dropped out, sick with the answer she knew was coming.

"Mm undercover!"

"_Undercover_?" Mycroft asked, disbelieving.

"Well I'm not _now_!" Sherlock groused, shrugging out of his brother's grasp and turning away from the couch, opting to curl up on his chair instead.

"What makes you think I'm going to believe you were undercover in a place like that?" Mycroft bit out. Sherlock cracked an eye open.

"Case. With the bodies. Suspect frequents that place. If he's on a high while he does it, it 'splains how he was able to drag a man twice his size halfway 'cross London."

"Where is the rest?" Mycroft asked.

"Rest of what?"

"Sherlock."

"There isn't any," he shrugged, rolling onto his back, hanging his legs over the arm of his chair. "Only had it at the-" he waved his hand in the air. "Thingy- place- den…crack house-…area."

"Am I to believe that?"

"If you like. Deduce it for yourself," Sherlock swung his legs back down to the floor and got to his feet. The sudden movement stirred the air around him and Molly found herself covering her mouth from the smell that emanated from him. "You know my habits from before, brother mine," he snapped. "Bedroom door is open, rather than closed, so I've nothing to hide there. Skull, empty," he tossed it over his shoulder, "moccasin, empty," that joined the skull on the chair. "Check the flat, I didn't bring any home." He suddenly stopped and curled his lip, smelling his own odor. "Need a shower." He passed Molly, and then paused, seeing her expression. "You're angry," he said and stopped to face her. "Furious, in fact. Hurt, upset," shame overtook his features as he deduced her. "Disappointed," he concluded. Drawing back on his reserves, he pulled himself to his full height, letting the mask of indifference he had begun to discard in her prescence fall back into place. "People always let you down, Molly Hooper; they will always fall short of your aspirations for them. I am no different."

The slap was not unexpected, but the force of it was a surprise. Before he could register what she'd done, he was struck across the other cheek, then a third time on the other. He blinked, though he did nothing to stop her.

"How dare you throw away the gifts you were born with, and how dare you do this to your friends and your brother after everything they've done for you."

"'They'-" he echoed. She had not included herself. She did not demand he apologize to her. He looked at her, rubbing his left cheek.

"Say you're sorry." She insisted. He set his jaw, glaring at Mycroft. His brother, shockingly, did not look smug. He didn't look pleased that his baby brother was being disciplined. He looked…sad. _Disappointed_.

"I'm…sorry," he said finally, but he wasn't looking at Mycroft. He stepped away from Molly, finally looking at his brother. "I'm going for a shower." He hurried to the privacy of the bathroom before anyone could stop him.

Molly stood holding her hand, feeling the sting in her palm. The hurt in her chest from expending so much energy and having to reach up so high took her breath away. She reached for the chair, tears smarting in her eyes. She didn't know what was worse, Sherlock coming home higher than a kite or the pain in her chest. Seeing her fumbling to sit down Mycroft reached for her, helping.

"I am sorry," he said, taking a chair opposite her. "Do you need anything?" She shook her head.

"No, it will go away in a moment," she reached for the stuffed animal at the corner of the couch and held it to herself, resting her forehead against it.

"Deep, even breaths, Miss Hooper," He cautioned and she nodded.

"How long was he there for?"

"When did you last see him? As himself I mean?"

"Four days ago- oh my God-" she began to cry.

"I'd wager he wasn't there more than two," Mycroft said, attempting to comfort her. It was likely he was there for three at the most, judging by his beard-growth, and the fact that nothing was found on his person.

"He smelled like he'd been there a week."

"Crack houses rarely smell like the Savoy," he replied, almost smiling.

"What's your diagnosis of him?" Mycroft shrugged.

"Seeing his reaction to you, and having observed him, it _was_ for a case, not the actual taking of drugs of course, he probably followed the suspect to the house, found his way in and couldn't help himself. It was a low-point of the case, when little was happening," Mycroft said. "You're still in pain," he observed and got to his feet. He fetched a glass of water for her and an acetaminophen. She took it without question, swallowing it down. "I am not excusing him,"

"I don't need his behavior explained," she said. "I know him well enough to know it was a bad week for him regarding the case."

"You can't blame yourself," Mycroft cautioned. "Sherlock will do…what he does. I had hoped he'd be off it for good now that John Watson and his wife are upstairs, and you here-"

"Me?" she interrupted, surprised. "What do I have to do with him?" Mycroft actually smiled at her.

"For someone who claims to know Sherlock Holmes, you certainly are missing a rather glaringly obvious deduction."

"What?"

"He _loves_ _you_, Miss Hooper." Molly stared at him, eyes wide, disbelieving. Mycroft frowned. "You were not aware?"

"No I…no I wasn't…" she managed. "Why would he…if he does then why would he do this-"

"Clearly, he regrets it. He was tempted and coherent thought fled him, as it often does when we are tempted," he shrugged. "We don't think about the ones we love. You should have seen his face when John found him, and then declared he go straight home and tell you the truth."

"I- I'm sorry this is too much for me to process," she blinked. "Sherlock…doesn't love me," she said lamely.

"What's your evidence to substantiate that claim?" Mycroft asked. He leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers. He was amused as she fumbled for a response. "He does," Mycroft reiterated. "I've never seen why he holds feelings so high above scientific thought. It just muddles everything and makes it difficult. But then, he was always the dumb one."

"He's not dumb!" Molly snapped.

"Remind me who is currently in the shower washing away three days worth of filth and residue from a crack den."

"You said two days." Mycroft smiled.

"I lied." Her response was to kick him in the shin. "Ow!" he rubbed the sore spot, glaring. "Yes…well…" Molly was on her feet, heading to the kitchen.

"I'm making tea, and there's fresh biscuits in the tin, do you want any?" a little startled by this sudden offer, he nodded.

"Please, thank you."

She was just handing Mycroft a cup when Sherlock poked his head around the corner, hair sticking out at odd angles from him vigorously toweling off.

"Tea?" Molly asked. He shuffled further out, taking the cup from her extended arm.

"Don't stretch that far, you'll hurt yourself," he said, and sank down onto the couch.

"You should talk," Mycroft muttered.

"If you can't be civil then have another biscuit," Molly said and seated herself on the couch. Sherlock watched with some amusement as the tin of biscuits was pushed closer to his brother, who looked at the array of jelly buttons and buttered shortbread.

"How much then, Sherlock?" his brother finally asked, setting his cup aside.

"How much _what_?"

"How much did you take, so we know what we're dealing with?"

"I was there three days, was clean the first night gave in second night, still riding it tonight." Sherlock answered, and Mycroft nodded, understanding he wasn't lying. "Almost over now, don't like coming down," he murmured. "Feel sick," Molly took the cup from him and set it on the lamp stand.

"Sick bowl is under the sink," she said. Mycroft blinked at her. "Either you sit with him while he vomits, or get the sick bowl," she said and he got to his feet while Sherlock leaned over, sticking his head between his knees. "You would think, Sherlock Holmes, you understood this feeling enough to remind you next time you are tempted by it." He didn't respond, only took the bowl from Mycroft's outstretched hand.

"I'll put him to bed," he said quietly and Molly nodded, nudging Sherlock to get to his feet. Mycroft helped him down the hall, depositing him on the made bed and left the door open. "He'll be going through withdrawals probably the next few days, I'll stay for tonight, John should stay tomorrow and perhaps even the rest of the week if need be. I don't think it will last long, the case is picking up again." Mycroft seated himself, picking up his cup of tea. Molly, for her part, pushed her cup aside and lay down on the couch, sighing heavily.

Through the haze of withdrawals Sherlock sought for some kind of sense through the waves of nausea and cold sweats. He caught glimpses of Mycroft in his shirtsleeves, wringing out a washcloth. He felt his head being lifted, and placed on someone's lap. He opened his bleary eyes to see Molly looking down at him, her expression so impossibly sad Sherlock felt the guilt well up inside him, sparking fiercer than before. It was one thing for John to have to see him like this, it was twice as bad for Molly to be here when he was shaking from the after effects of cocaine. She combed her fingers through his hair, speaking softly.

"Sleep for now, Sherlock, just go to sleep," her voice was soft and seemed to carry him off to a sleep full of terrible dreams.

_The Woman paraded around in her battle dress, laughing at him, mocking his weakness. Moriarty barked on a chain, his face split and then joined, circling upside-down, cackling._

"_It's all sixes and sevens from here, Sherlock," he laughed. "Aren't you glad you gave in? Makes everything so much easier to understand? Just…slows down all the thoughts, puts them in order…makes you dull…dullsville. Dullsaroonie. Just like everyone else. That's what you've always wanted isn't it Sherlock? Aren't you glad you gave in? Aren't you? Aaaren't yooooooou?" He fled from that room, slamming the door shut. His mind-palace was an absolute mess, and he struggled to put things in order again. He could feel himself sprinting down long empty halls, pulling doors open. Papers scattered under his feet and everywhere he turned there were faces he recognized, all of them speaking, swirling around him but the only sound he could hear was static. _

"_Stop all of you stop this incessant ringing in my head!" Sherlock bellowed at it all, covering his ears. _

"_If you don't like it then stop it yourself," he turned with a start at the soft voice, breaking through the deafening white noise. _

"_Molly!" he gasped. She wore her white lab coat from St. Barts, that silly sweater with the red cherries embroidered on it poked out from under the collar. _

"_If you don't like it, then stop it," she repeated. _

"_I'm afraid I'll give in again."_

"_How can you be sure if you don't try?" _

"_I want to try, but I am afraid I'll fail again." _

"_If everyone was afraid to try and fail, we wouldn't get anywhere." _

"_I'm sorry," he said. "You told me to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She looked up at him, hands in her pockets._

"_I know you are." She said. "I know. And I forgive you." He looked around at the people he knew best, Mary and John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, then back at Molly. "I'm sorry!" she followed him through his mind-palace, a constant in the chaos of his mind. At the precipice of insanity, when the noise grew loudest her hand grasped his and he felt himself anchored. _

Molly didn't know who he was talking to, Mycroft said it was just a delirium and couldn't hear her, but she responded to him anyway.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock groaned. She changed the washcloth for a fresh one, soothing him.

"I know you are," she said quietly. "I know. And I forgive you."

In the morning, Molly awoke in Sherlock's bed and she was startled for a moment, and then remembered the night before. John was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Sherlock sat at the table, hair askew, looking sullen as a teenager, clearly having been dragged out of bed.

"You can stop with that face," John said. "There's still a case to solve. It was a mistake, an impossibly _stupid_ mistake, but you're human. You'll get over it, as will we," John was still obviously mad as he slammed the sugar bowl down on the table followed by a plate of food. "Eat your breakfast."

"Where's Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"At work," John turned, wiping his hands off on the towel he'd slung over his shoulder. He saw Molly standing in the hallway and smiled kindly at her. "Morning, you sleep okay?" she shrugged. "Breakfast is ready," he held a plate out to her so she got to her feet, shuffling to the kitchen and seated herself. Afterwards she returned to the living room, finding herself not ready to face Sherlock Holmes as of yet. Mycroft declared his brother to be in love with her. What a ridiculous thing. He didn't love her. He was a friend…he respected her…but certainly not love. Besides. There was this whole drug issue to deal with. Five years he'd been clean, and now this! How could he throw all that away?! Anger and hurt welled up inside her and she curled back up onto the couch, finding she was too upset to want to face the day.

John spent the morning and most of the afternoon in 221b, Sherlock, for his part, did his best to ignore the symptoms of withdrawal and focus on the case. New evidence had come up last night and as soon as he was allowed to, he'd head to St. Barts to process it. For now he mulled things over in his mind-palace. He plucked at his violin endlessly, rolling the evidence over and over in his thoughts. Always in the back of his mind was a tearful face, Molly. She was hurt by his actions, this time it wasn't even against her. Not like the time he'd said something awful to her at the Christmas party. _"I liked that dress." _This time he'd done something to himself, stupid, he granted. It was absolutely stupid and he was ashamed to the core he'd given in, not only that he'd cowed to it but that the ones he held most dear had seen him. He thought he was beyond such low points. This case shouldn't have driven him to this. It had to be something more. He glanced at Molly, napping on the couch. In the spring she'd have an appointment to find out whether or not she'd need chemotherapy. No later than April. A sudden terror seized him and he felt himself physically flinch at the thought: what if John had not found him last night, what if he overdosed and Molly ended up having to go through chemo by herself? What if she died, all by herself? The thought startled him so much so that he stopped playing, the notes trailing off weakly.

"Breakthrough?" John asked. Slowly, Sherlock tore his gaze from Molly, still fast asleep.

"No…I…just…thought of something." He murmured. He placed the bow against the strings, attempting the tune again. He couldn't let himself fall so far again. He would not let himself. His thoughts drifted back to the night before, when Mycroft had laid him down on the bed and Sherlock groaned, ill.

"_What hurts more, brother mine?"_ _Mycroft asked softly, a bitter edge to his voice. "The thought of not having another fix, or the possibility of losing her forever?" _His brother was playing his two addictions against the other. There was a panic in him that the drug would overtake all else, as it had before. Love for family, even for himself, did not stop Sherlock Holmes from succumbing to it. How could his love for Molly Hooper ever be different? But Mycroft had worded it cleverly. _What hurt more?_ Sherlock didn't have to think. The thought of losing Molly made his breath stop short. A life without Molly. She wouldn't be there at St. Barts, smiling and ready with a cadaver for him. She wouldn't be at 221b to scold him for stealing fingers from the morgue. She wouldn't be upset with him using her knitting needles as skewers for intestines, or raging at him every time he experimented (harmless tests) on Toby. She wouldn't be singing off-key in the shower or shuffling to breakfast in those stupid rabbit slippers with the teeth. Her place was at 221b, and Sherlock Holmes realized that it would be impossibly empty without her. He could not lose her. He wouldn't lose her. Not if he could help it. The best way to ensure she stay would be to, as John said, crack on. He made a mistake. Now it was time to apologize and move forward.

John watched him stare at Molly until finally the instrument was laid aside, Sherlock sank into his chair.

"I am a stupid man, John." Sherlock breathed. He raised his eyebrows, looking up at his friend. John only nodded.

"Good to know you're finally seeing sense. What brought this revelation on?"

"Nothing. Not you. I have to get dressed." He leapt to his feet, hurrying down the hall.

"Get dressed- where are you going?"

"Breakthrough, go get your coat, I'll meet you downstairs." John eyed his friend for a moment before he nodded, heading out.

Sherlock was dressed in just a few moments, shrugging into his coat. He tapped out a quick text, but just as he was about to hit 'send', he thought again and instead punched in a number. He paused by Molly, still asleep. Bending, he kissed the top of her head.

"What is it?" she murmured. "What's wrong? Where's John? Are you sick?" it was alarming how quickly she was awake, immediately concerned with him despite the sudden movement causing her pain.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice calm and quiet. "Everything is fine, well, better at any rate. It's the case, information," he said. "John and I are going to the morgue; will you be alright by yourself?"

"Yes of course I will be," she rubbed at the back of her neck, sore. "Will you?"

"Yes." His answer was definite and she saw he was not brushing her aside.

"I mean it," she pressed.

"So do I. We'll talk later, game is on. I'll be back late!" he was already dashing for the door, coat flapping behind him.

~O~

**That Night…**

When Sherlock got in, he found Molly sitting at the table, staring at a bouquet of flowers.

"You should be asleep though. It's quite late." She didn't respond and he swiveled from side to side for a moment, still itching to go about his business, still working on the case. "Shall I turn down the sofa-bed?"

"Did you mean it?" she asked, holding up the note card that had come with the flowers. On it was his neat script, an apology and a promise not to fall so far again.

"Yes."

"You can't keep doing this, taking it when you're bored, and then suddenly deciding that life is interesting enough for you to go off it I can't…I can't watch you destroy yourself like that. It's hard enough with me not…still not well; I can't take you falling away. I _won't_ stay here if you're going to be so reckless and stupid." He nodded, understanding her.

"Molly…I am sorry,"

"So you said, over and over last night," he looked up, startled. So he had been speaking last night, it hadn't been a dream. "And you said so in your note as well," she tossed it on the table. "I want your promise, Sherlock Holmes." She made to fold her arms across her chest, and then winced from the pain. "I want you to swear on everything you hold dear you won't ever, ever do anything like this ever again, you won't touch it, you won't go near it, not even for a case, no matter how bored you are, you come to me, or to John or Mary or- I don't know. But if you need someone, I'm here. I'll tie you down if need be, but I want your promise you'll keep away from it." He pulled her hands from her forearms to keep her from holding herself in such a painful attitude.

"I promise." He was solemn, and Molly studied him carefully. He didn't look away from her, his mouth didn't frown, and he didn't twitch. She let go of his hands, stepping into the circle of his arms, hugging him outright, sniffling.

"If you ever, _ever_ do that _again_…" she trailed off, not sure how to finish it.

"I don't want to." He said, allowing himself to hug her back. He smoothed her hair, sighing. "And you wouldn't have to tie me down," he added after a moment and she stifled a sob, wiping her nose as she laughed at him. She had forgiven him now, and Sherlock understood she wouldn't bring it up anymore.

She finally pulled away (much to his disappointment).

"Are you hungry? I saved a meat pie for you- oh no, you're still working aren't you?"

"John is insisting I eat." She set it in the toaster oven to warm up before turning back to see him pulling out the sofa bed, settling the pillows on the end. She handed him the meat pie and he took it, smiling his thanks, stuffing half of it in his mouth. Toby, smelling food, leapt out from his hiding place and jumped onto his shoulder.

"Toby no-" she began.

"There you are, punishing me too, are you? Here," Sherlock pulled a bit of meat from the pie, holding it up to the cat's nose. Toby pulled at it with his paw and licked it up, purring noisily. Molly stared, not quite sure of her eyes at that moment.

"Is this a side-effect?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock frowned. "He helps me think. I couldn't find my skull a few weeks ago and you weren't home, Toby doesn't talk back."

"He's a fill-in for the skull?" she asked. Sherlock pulled a face.

"_You_ talk to him."

"He's _my_ cat."

"Hm. Yes. About that. Since you're living here, ownership of the cat should be dual," he said. "He's necessary for experiments- harmless, of course, as well as useful for your physical therapy." She shook her head, sighing heavily. She fell asleep that night her heart eased greatly that things, while not exactly as they were before, they were certainly better than the night previous.

~O~

The case was solved a week later and Sherlock came traipsing home, brash and noisy as the day is long, John trailing behind him, tired and hungry.

"Food!" Sherlock bellowed up the stairs as he hurried up.

"You'll wake the girls up!" John complained, knowing Mary had woken that morning still plagued by stomach flu. She'd even taken the day off, she felt so ill. "Mary's still sick you know,"

"She's not sick, she's pregnant," Sherlock said, rummaging through his pocket for the key to his door.

"_What?!"_

"Change in appetite and tastes, John, sick almost three weeks running, all at different hours of the day, and substantial weight gain, sign of three, pregnant." He rattled the handle, finding the door was stuck.

"What do you mean- weight gain- how did you even notice all that before me? I'm a doctor!"

"Nerves about the case and…me…I imagine. Deduced it the other week when we were waiting for information from the morgue. Slower than bloody rush hour without Molly there," he delivered a swift kick to the door and it gave way.

"Were you demanding food or announcing it?" Molly's voice could be heard from the living room.

"Announcing, obviously," Sherlock deposited the foam container on her lap before setting his coat and scarf aside. John still stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.

"Your food will get cold," Molly said. "Are you and Mary going to come join us?"

"Probably not," Sherlock said. He threw himself on the couch without spilling his plate. "Baby, Molly, remember?"

"Oh yes, congratulations by the way!" she smiled at John. "Tell Mary to come down and we'll look at patterns for little hats and booties."

"Ugh." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"She knows- you know too?" John pointed at Molly, looking between her and Sherlock.

"Of course she does, who else was I going to tell?"

"You could have told me!"

"And insult your intelligence? You are a doctor after all," Sherlock tucked into his food, finally acquiescing to his ravenous appetite which he had ignored for almost a week. "Go congratulate your wife, celebrate, only please do so in a quieter manner than last time. Molly and I could hardly hear the telly over you two last week."

"That's it. We're moving." John said, coloring modestly. "Goodnight, Molly, thanks, sorry, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night John," she waved, turning her attention back to the television. They watched in silence for some time until Sherlock set aside his empty carton, turning to face Molly. She looked over at him, a mouthful of lo-mein. "What?" there was a glint in his eye that she knew well, a wicked smile growing. "Alright," she said, still chewing. Reaching for a remote, she winced a little, flicking the television off. "I can see you're absolutely desperate, so go on. Do what you have to do." He leapt over the coffee table, snatching up his dressing gown and hurrying to the kitchen to make tea. Once it was set, he returned, picking up his violin, he began to recount the entire case to her, allowing her to question now and again when she fell behind in his explanations (which could often become sidetracked when he was excited).

~O~

**April**

Sherlock was not anywhere to be found the day of her appointment. The most important appointment since she had her surgery. She would finally be seeing her doctor and learn if she had to go through chemo or not. She'd finally learn if there were any secondary tumors cropping up.

"He's not answering his phone," John said.

"Where could he be?" Molly asked.

"You don't think he's…" Mary trailed off, not wanting to complete the thought.

"After last time, no," John said decisively. Sherlock had made it quite clear to John he wouldn't risk it again, the cost was too dear, and John realized he wasn't talking about the literal cost of the drug. "Maybe Greg called him in last minute,"

"He'd have told us," Mary said.

"Well there's nothing for it, we'll just have to go without him," John said, hanging up his phone. "Ready to face the day?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Molly sighed. Since her early October surgery, she'd been dreading this appointment. They headed downstairs, Molly still moving slowly, to the waiting cab.

"There you are!" Molly smiled relief apparent on her face. Sherlock was leaning against the cab, waiting for them.  
"Where have you been?"

"Where have _you_ been?" Sherlock retorted.

"We've been upstairs, you've been to Mycroft's," Molly said confidently.

"What?" Mary and John asked, Sherlock grinned.

"He's been to his brother's," she said. "There's a whiff of cologne on his coat, not his, he doesn't wear that brand, too posh, means they hugged. You two don't hug," Molly frowned at him. "Something happened, or he was threatening you, probably the latter. There's also a spot of jam on your shirt cuff, there's no raspberry jam upstairs, not since I used the last of it to make Mycroft a batch of jelly buttons three days ago. You had breakfast with him this morning, and finished off the last of them, which is probably why he hugged you, to threaten you," she grinned and Sherlock opened the door, stepping aside so she could climb into the cab.

"Is that true?" John asked.

"Most of it at any rate," Sherlock paused. "He did threaten me. But not about the jelly buttons." He got in beside her, shutting the door after him.

"Hey!" John protested.

"Go to breakfast, you two," Sherlock said through the open window. "I'll look after her this time." John didn't say anything for a moment. "It's alright, John, I've got her." The cab pulled away, leaving them on the curb.

John had always looked after Molly. In the four years, he'd always made sure she was taken care of, whether having to call a locksmith because she was locked out of her flat, or if she needed a shoulder to cry on, or someone simply to speak to. It was hard, letting Sherlock take his place in this instance. Molly was about to receive news that would change her life forever. She needed family. She needed John and Mary. He felt his wife's hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Finally, he tore his gaze from the cab in the distance, looking down at her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah…" he said slowly, then finally nodded, smiling. "I'm just proud of him is all."

They went to breakfast, talking about the baby that was on the way (Mary was three months along now, just beginning to show). They opted not to find out the sex yet, it made it all the more exciting, choosing names. Just as they were about to ask for the bill, John's phone lit up, it was a text from Sherlock.

_Doctor is strongly suggesting adjuvant therapy due to high risk from her mother. _

_SH_

Another text followed:

T_here is still a substantial statistical risk of relapse, which is why she will undergo the chemo._

_SH_

_She's clean though, it is a precaution to prevent relapse. _

_SH_

_She's going to live. _

_SH_

_Molly Hooper beat cancer._

_SH_

_I told you she was strong._

_SH_

John read them aloud to Mary, his voice breaking with each new text, at first out of sadness, but as the texts progressed, and Sherlock's messages gave more and more information, it was out of relief that John Watson set his phone down to wipe his eyes.

"Tell him we're all going out to dinner tonight," Mary said, she gathered her purse up. "Make reservations at the Savoy, or I don't know…somewhere nice and posh, someplace with music,"

"Okay," he was tapping out the text. "Wait- hey where are you going?"

"I'm going to make an appointment at the salon, Molly and I are going to get prettied up," she kissed him goodbye. "And tell Sherlock to put on a tie!" she called over her shoulder.

**That Evening…**

Molly tugged at the front of the dress, even though the neckline was nowhere near her scars. She felt exposed. She hadn't worn anything this long or elegant since…well…ever. The rich green satin Mary had helped her pick out hugged her just so, without being overly revealing. Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off her all evening, and Molly flushed every time she glanced in his direction. When Mary had showed up at St. Barts, declaring she was kidnapping her for the day, Molly realized Sherlock had told them the news and there was a grander scheme behind Mary's simple explanation that she was taking her for a 'girl's afternoon'.

"Last night you get to have champagne in a while," John said, handing her a glass. "Besides we're celebrating, you're cancer-free,"

"So far," Molly added. "This time next year, I hope we'll be able to say the same." Mary held a glass of sparkling water, shaking her head when the waiter asked her if she would have a glass of wine as well.

"I ran the numbers while you were changing and the likely-hood of you-"

"Well I still have to go through it," Molly said, cutting Sherlock off. "Nothing is certain," the table fell silent and she felt ashamed suddenly. "Sorry, I don't mean to-" she broke off, smiling at them. "It's a lovely evening, let's not talk about it anymore tonight," John and Mary nodded, agreeing. Sherlock got to his feet.

"I'll be right back,"

"Where are you going?"

"To see the conductor," Sherlock said over his shoulder as he walked away. Molly shrugged, turning her attention back to the menu.

"I'm glad you decided to come with us," Mary said. "It's been ages since we all got to get dressed up and go somewhere nice."

"I didn't have much of a choice did I?" Molly asked, laughing. "Mary just about kidnapped me!"

"I don't see anyone complaining," Mary retorted, a twinkle in her eye. "Certainly not Sherlock. She was looking over Molly's shoulder.

Soft music began to play; a song Molly knew very well, one of her favorites in fact. She looked up, startled. Sherlock stood there, looking back at her. She suddenly realized he meant to ask her to dance.

"Oh, Sherlock, you don't have to, that's very nice of you-"

"You don't want to?" he frowned.

"No, that's not what I meant- of course I do-"

"You don't like the chosen song?"

"No, I'm very fond of this song-"

"Then I can only assume that you mean to say you don't want me to feel obligated to do this. I know I'm not. I want to." Mary was positively beaming, and John was fighting the proudest smile behind his wine glass. Sherlock stood there, still holding out his hand to her. She looked around at the other couples, oblivious to the Consulting Detective holding out his hand to the little Pathologist. After a moment she took his hand, leaving her wrap on the chair and letting him lead her out to the dance floor.

"I think you are very brave, Molly Hooper," he said, guiding her easily around the floor.

"Me?" she laughed a little, but sobered, seeing Sherlock was not sharing her smile. He was quite serious.

"Mycroft told you of my feelings for you." He said suddenly. She looked up at him.

"Yes."

"Did you believe him?"

"No."

"You should." He looked down at her in his arms, the barest glimpse of a smile on his lips. "Maybe it's simply the news we got today, or it's just this whole…losing your breasts and putting everything in perspective, but supposing this all goes to hell in a hand basket, I'd like to say it before I can't." he looked away from her as she blinked back tears. His words were clumsy and he seemed eager for some kind of distraction. "I wish…" he glanced around them, still guiding them around the floor, the song half over. "I wish I was able to say how I feel as freely as you, but I cannot. I'm still confounded sometimes why you do love me, but I promise you that I will say it someday…" he paused, daring to catch her eye and found she was smiling up at him.

"I know," she answered. "And it's alright. I'll say it for the both of us, if you like." He offered a sincere smile.

"There is one thing that I will have to say, you can't say it for me, not if we want it done properly," he said after a moment. He led her from the dance floor, bringing her over to the patio, near the trees strung up with paper lanterns. Here, he dug through his pocket and pulled out a ring. "Sorry, lost the box," he mumbled. She looked at the diamond, glittering in the warm light, then up at Sherlock, who seemed to be unknowing as to what to say next, and yet he knew exactly what he was to say. "You've said before you don't have a family anymore, I wonder if you would do me the favor, the honor, of joining mine."

"This isn't going to be romantic, or pretty, or safe, or easy," Molly said, just as he opened his mouth. He blinked, a little surprised at her statement, but understanding she was referring to the months ahead, not their actual relationship (though it could have been).

"Life with me hardly is," he looked down at her. "But…I will make it as…pretty and as happy and as romantic even, for you as I possibly can, if that's what you want."

"I just want to be with you," she answered simply. "I know you, Sherlock Holmes. You would hardly ever be home at the same time each night, there'd be scads of broken dates and forgotten anniversaries and probably more cadavers in the freezer than food…" she shook her head. "I don't expect you to change these things, because that's who you are," she shrugged. "I don't need serenades or fancy presents or Saturday evenings at the pub. I can't promise you any of that myself, with the hours I keep at the morgue," Molly took his hand in hers. "But I can promise that I can be there for _you_ when you get home from your cases, to listen when you need to think aloud or even just hand you a bag of crisps." His smile was warm, his eyes soft. In all of London, in the entire world, in all the moments and seconds and minute glances of time, Sherlock Holmes knew there would never be a woman greater than Molly Hooper, no other woman could ever be for him. He still held the ring between them, she glanced at it, and then up at him. Her mouth puckered into a smile, her eyes twinkling. "I won't answer you till you say it," she smiled at him. He let out a gust of breath, laughing, he nodded, suddenly finding words were difficult. Humor broke up tense situations, why was this suddenly so much harder than talking down a gunman?

"Shall I get down on one knee?" he asked.

"If you like," she answered. "Just like this is nice too." He nodded, taking her hand.

From their seats at the table, Mary grabbed John's arm, nodding to the patio where Sherlock had pulled Molly. John followed his wife's gaze, and a smile slowly stretched across his features, watching his best friend slide a ring onto Molly's hand as she nodded and beamed up at him before sharing their first kiss.


	5. Not just for a year

_Okay, my little darlings, you've all been so lovely you get another chapter. This is second to last chapter of this story (I never said it would a long one). The response has been overwhelming, regarding this fic, and I have to thank you all, all one hundred and thirty-six of you! You are AMAZING. Thank you so much! I promise there will be one more chapter, it just won't be this week, so just hold tight, and hold onto the dream that Sherlolly will some day actually happen on the show, but until that glorious day we'll be happy with our fanfiction. Thanks as well, for so many wonderful and positive reviews, those that gave pointers and so-on, thank you, you're awesome, you deserve cookies and milk. _

* * *

Her first chemo session was the following week. Sherlock waited for Molly to ask him to come along, rather than insist. "Sometimes people are funny about chemo," Mary said. "I had a friend who had gone through it, he didn't want anyone with him, but he still appreciated people asking if he wanted anybody with him." So Sherlock waited. The night before her session, she'd finished braiding her hair, climbing onto the sofa-bed.

"Are you going to come with me tomorrow?" he bent, tucking the blankets over her.

"If you like me to," he said and she said she did. "I didn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be. I know you won't always be able to come with me, but I'd like you to come whenever you can."

The next morning found them in St. Barts, a nurse slipping the cold mittens over her hands, and then carefully wrapping her feet in protective sleeves.

"They'll reduce the harm to your nails," the nurse explained. Sherlock had already set his coat aside, sitting close by Molly, watching another nurse wheel in an IV, hooking up the docetaxel.

"Little pinch," the other nurse said, inserting the needle and then slipping the IV into a vein. "Today's session will be about four hours, so just sit back and relax; it's going to feel a little strange, shall I put the telly on?" Molly nodded, knowing it would be a good distraction for Sherlock.

"Thank you." It was her first session, so a nurse would be staying for the remainder of it to watch her vitals and make sure everything went right. Molly watched as the flip was switched, and the docetaxel began to drip down into the IV, down into her body. It was some morbid fascination that she stared at it, slipping under her skin, filling her with toxins. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, her brain screamed at her to rip the tube out and stop poisoning herself, but the rational side was well in control, reminding her it was necessary. The first hour slipped by, and she realized she hadn't heard one word the talk-show host on the television had said. She felt as if her brain were fuzzy, thoughts came slowly. She looked over at Sherlock, who was watching the monitor and the IV, hands steepled under his chin.

"M'alright," she said and put on a smile. "Feel sick, but I'm alright."

Sherlock disliked not being able to hold Molly's hand. She was pale, and she worried her bottom lip sometimes. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

"Do you need a bowl?" he asked, seeing her turn almost grey.

"Feel sick," she slurred. "Never…felt this sick before.

"Here Molly," the nurse said kindly, she helped her lean forward, the ice-mitts kept her from grabbing the bowl as she threw up, coughing and spitting. Sherlock poured her a glass of water to rinse her mouth. "That's the way, it's alright, we've got you," the nurse said kindly. "Just lean back, it's alright."

It wasn't alright though. How could this be alright?! Sherlock watched Molly slip into an almost lethargic state, the nurse called it "Chemo-Brain". Some side-affect of the session would be that it made Molly weak and listless. Molly was not weak. It was unsettling, seeing her so unlike herself.

"She'll be like that for the rest of the day, so when she gets home, just put her on the couch, light reading or television only," she said and Sherlock nodded. He would tell John and Mary as well. His thoughts drifted to the year ahead. He and Molly had a wedding to plan, but she couldn't possibly plan such an event in this state! He could very easily handle such matters. He'd practically done so for John and Mary after all. But what about after the wedding when there was nothing else to keep him occupied between chemo sessions? He would go mad, watching Molly suffer through these treatments. As if reading his thoughts, Molly opened her eyes.  
"You'll have a case soon," she said softly.

"What?" he was startled.

"You're worrying about what to do, to keep you occupied so you won't worry yourself into a state," she said. "I know you Mr. Holmes," she smiled a little. "You'll take cases, and don't you dare tell me you won't, you need cases. They're what keep you going."

"So do you."

"Don't turn down a case for my sake," she said finally. "Promise me you won't, there will always be someone to come with me, Mary, or Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry." Molly smiled bravely at him, and he reached over, covering one of her mitten-clad hands.

"I promise."

As with all things, one can do all the research they could possibly want, but until they experience, reading and living through something is entirely different. Chemo left Molly exhausted and ill. Along with the nausea came the changes in her appetite, nothing tempted her, and Sherlock worried she would waste away. Mary collaborated with Mrs. Hudson, trying to find healthy options that would keep Molly's appetite and give her the nutrition she'd need to keep her strength up. Sleep was fleeting, and energy was almost non-existent. Everything was a chore and it made her irritable. She was becoming forgetful and too easily distracted mid-conversation. At times Molly wondered if she was going mad. Through all of this Sherlock was constant, anchoring her in the chaos that seemed to be her life. He reminded her daily in the little things of his feelings for her, saw to it that she did not feel a burden (though with everyone doing things for her, she certainly felt it).

Cases were ideal distraction for Sherlock. Not only did it keep him from turning to unsavory pastimes, it kept his brain active, and kept him from worrying about Molly. He knew Mary and Mrs. Hudson would always sit in with Molly when she had a session, so during his next two cases, he wasn't overly concerned. It was the recovery period during sessions that worried him. Molly would sleep throughout the day, or watch television, sometimes she'd pick up her knitting. It pained him to see the light in Molly so dim. This wasn't like her, to have no ambition or drive. The only thing that cheered her was when he would come in with a case, it gave her something to think about as well. Never had Sherlock wished so keenly for the seamier side of London to pick up the pace and commit a few murders. He knew that if he was on a case, Molly would get out of bed, she'd agree to eat something, and she'd wait for him to come home so she could hear the news from around London. She didn't even mind when he was on a case that he couldn't come with her to her chemo sessions, so long as someone else went with her. It wasn't usually a problem, there was always someone, John had come a few times, and even Greg, Mary was usually the first one in line to help out, and on a few occasions even Mrs. Hudson had volunteered. As with all things though, eventually there came a day when absolutely everyone was busy, and Sherlock and John had a case. Mrs. Hudson was called away on family matters, and Mary had worked a double shift at the clinic and Molly refused to wake her up. Greg was working the same case as Sherlock, and John was also needed.

"You can't go alone!" Sherlock insisted.

"I'm already here," she switched the phone to her other ear so the nurse could put the IV in. "It's only the one time, hopefully." He could hear the resignation in her voice. She was afraid, and she didn't like doing such things by herself.

"_No."_ Sherlock said firmly. He cursed that this case was for some bloody royal. If stupid Mycroft hadn't called him up and insisted he take it- a thought suddenly crossed his mind. "Molly, hold on, I'm going to call someone,"

"Who?"

"I'll call you back when they're on their way,"

"I won't be able to pick up the phone, they're about to put the mitts on me," Molly said.

"Someone is coming," Sherlock promised. "So you won't be alone." the line was quiet. "Molly?"

"Thank you Sherlock," she said quietly.

"You are welcome,"

"I love you, I'll see you later."

"I'll see you later," he waited for her to hang up before he began swiping through his contacts.

"Who are you going to send over there?" John asked. Sherlock didn't answer him, the other line already ringing.

"Brother dear, how _are_ you?"

~O~

Mycroft was not terribly pleased that his younger brother was calling him, let alone calling him and asking him to sit with Molly Hooper while she underwent chemo.

"Why should I?"

"Because right now you're about to be whisked into the House of Lords to watch an intolerably dull set of MP's fight about problems that have little to do with you as a favor for some politician you don't care about."

"And you're suggesting watching your fiancée being pumped full of toxins is a more pleasant way to spend the day?"

"For _you_, maybe," Sherlock said. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Fine." He sighed heavily and hung up. In truth, the phone call was an absolute god-send. He hated favors to MP's. He hated the House of Lords. He disliked hospitals, but Sherlock owed his life twice over to Molly Hooper, and she was soon to be his sister in-law so Mycroft decided it was worthy of his time. He excused himself from the group, pleading family emergency before he dallied off, texting Anthea the change in schedule.

Molly was an hour and half into her treatment when there was a _tap-tap-tap _on the door.

"I know that sound," she mumbled, and the door opened, the nurse stepped aside.

"You've got a visitor after all, Molly," she said pleasantly. Mycroft entered, umbrella in hand, shutting the door behind him. He looked at the woman his brother was going to marry. Tubes in her arms, feet covered in wine-cooler wraps, giant blue ice-mitts covered her hands up to her wrists. A pillow sat on her lap so she could rest her hands comfortably. She was gray, looking as if she was going to be sick, her eyes were dull and tired, and she looked miserable. Upon seeing him there, though, the corners of her mouth turned up, and she smiled at him, genuinely smiled at him. Caring was not an advantage, but Mycroft excused himself this once, allowing his carefully guarded mask to slip away just a little. It's hard to be cross with someone who can smile despite looking the way she did, being pumped full of docetaxel and lord knows what else.

He set his coat and umbrella down,

"You ought to have your feet up," he said and bent to search for the lever on the recliner to prop her feet up.

"You may as well get comfortable, gonna be a while," she said. "There's telly, and magazines if you get bored. I'm sorry I'm not good company." He'd set aside a few newspapers to read, Sherlock said she slept at times. For now conversation would do.

"Good enough for my brother," he retorted at last, settling into the nearby chair. "This is your seventh treatment," he looked her over. Alopecia was beginning to set in, he couldn't see her nails but they were probably not the healthiest looking. She'd lost several pounds already, nausea would seem to be the prevailing symptom for her. If she could possibly be a shade paler than she was already, she was quickly reaching it.

"Gonna throw up," she croaked. "Bowl, sick bowl," he got it under her chin just in time, tactfully saying nothing. He held the cup of water for her so she could rinse and spit, and even wiped her chin when she was finished. "You'd be a good nurse," she said after. He took his jacket off, carefully folding it over the back of the chair.

"I used to take care of Sherlock when he was…ill…"

"Coming off his highs."

"Mm." he sat down again, taking a clean cloth and wiping the perspiration that gathered on her forehead. "Any plans for the wedding set?"

"Do you care?"

"Not especially, but it's the socially acceptable thing to ask about and you require some form of distraction."

"Sherlock booked a restaurant for the reception," she said after a moment. "Mary and I are going to go dress shopping soon," she said after a moment. "Sherlock will pick the menu, nothing tastes right to me, and almost everything makes me ill." She looked over at him. "I promise when I'm better I'll make you more jelly buttons." He almost succeeded in forcing back a smile. "Maybe if I have a good week, I'll be able to," she said. "I'm so tired lately. Not lately," she frowned. "Seems since my operation. This is worse though, seems like everything is a struggle. I've been so very exhausted, I hate it." Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. "I miss having strength. I miss being able to get up without everything being such an effort."

"You are strong, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, his voice quiet and earnest. She looked over at him, disbelief apparent in her eyes. But he sounded so sure of himself, of her, that she felt herself blinking hard to keep herself from crying. "In times of distress, positive reinforcement is required, is it not?" she forced out a laugh, despite the aches and pains. Her smile was genuine though and Mycroft returned it. "If the treatments go well, and recovery period takes no longer than normal, you could be back in the morgue carving up cadavers in a year or two," he said, and Molly smiled sleepily.

"One can only hope."

The afternoon was quiet, and, despite the actual goings on in the treatment room, it was almost peaceful. Molly was almost lethargic, but she kept awake, deciding she might not ever get to have time like this with Mycroft again.

"I met your mum and dad," Molly said after the fourth hour.

"Have you?" Mycroft asked, "Did they boast about their baby boy the detective?"

"Mmhm, and you too, they seem to be under the impression you're some kind of insurance salesman."

"Yes," Mycroft said with a face. "Easier than telling them my position in the government."

"Keeps them safe too." He nodded.

"What did you think of them?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

"I like them; they remind me of my parents. They aren't what I expected your folks to be like."

"No?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "How should they have been?"

"I don't know. I see you and your brother and I expected…posh," she shrugged a little, almost laughing. "It almost makes sense now, why you and Sherlock are so close," Mycroft snorted. "Don't give me that, you play your deduction games together all the time, you may call him the dumb one, but we both know you care deeply about him, he's your brother, he's the only one in the world who understands what it's like in your head, and vice-versa," she paused, thinking. "How lonely that must be…it's just the two of you against the whole world," she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and Mycroft couldn't look away. "How foolish we all must be to you, so…simple-minded, going about our small lives, and you see it all and can't do anything about it. No wonder you cling to each other." Mycroft stared at the woman before him, not quite knowing how to respond. It was disconcerting, having his feelings picked apart. If it were anyone else, he would have lied through his teeth, Ice-Man persona would slide into place and he'd leave before they could even begin to form an argument. But Molly Hooper's large eyes seemed to arrest him, and he stayed where he was. She saw through his mask of indifference, through the carefully worded insults and stings he tossed about so casually. She understood what made the Holmes' brothers tick, or at least a part of it. On that account alone she was leagues ahead of their parents.

"You're very perceptive, Miss Hooper."

"You can call me Molly, you know," she smiled at him. "Only in private if you prefer."

"I hardly call anyone by their given name," he said. "I shouldn't take it personally if I don't remember."

"You'll remember," Molly said with a smile. "Unlike your brother…you don't delete information that isn't important," Mycroft turned and looked at her sharply. "That's your curse, and perhaps why you worry so much for Sherlock. You remember…everything…you see every nuance, every expression, every phrase and step we all take and you can't forget any of it. It must be chaos in your brain," her words were slow, and coming from anyone else, they might have been said to start an argument. Molly Hooper was not an instigator. Perhaps it was the chemo that was making her brave.

"I think it's rather organized," he replied archly, reaching for the cloth to wipe her brow.

"Do you have a mind palace too?" she laughed tiredly. "Does it look like Buckingham?"

"Buckingham could hardly house all of my thoughts," he said, and he smiled at her this time, warmth in his eyes.

~O~

**Two Months into Chemo, One Month to the Big Day**

Molly looked at the hair on her pillow, then at the hairbrush in her hand. It looked like the brush after she got finished combing Toby. Her hair was thinner; it was beginning to show now, every time she ran her hands through her hair she'd pull out a handful.

Sherlock was staying in for the day, case solved. Molly had chemo on Monday, and as today was Saturday, he decided it would be conducive for all to have a lie in, perhaps book a band for the wedding later on. He'd have to find that video on Youtube that taught you how to fold napkins into swans again (he'd deleted that information after John and Mary's wedding). He hadn't even gotten dressed yet, just thrown on his dressing gown when he heard Molly knock on his bedroom door.

"You don't have to knock," he said in answer and she opened the door. "I don't see why you don't sleep in here, my bed is much more-" he turned to face her, then looked at what she held in her hands.

"Would you do it for me? I don't think I can reach the back."

He knew alopecia was a side-effect of the chemo. As was her nausea, change of appetite and taste in foods. He knew the facts, and yet when Molly handed him the hair clippers, he found himself disbelieving.

"Are you certain?" he heard himself ask.

"It may as well be now," she shrugged. "We both knew I'd lose my hair anyway."

"It will grow back," he said automatically. He hated saying it. It didn't change the fact that she had to lose it first. Molly only smiled at him.

"Sometimes people with straight hair, when they go through chemo, they lose their straight hair and it grows back curly, I always wanted curly hair."

"I like your hair."

"I like it too, but it's falling out, I'm beginning to feel like Toby," she said with a laugh, but she sobered quickly. "Please, Sherlock?"

He led the way out to the living room, and she seated herself on a kitchen chair. Draping a sheet over her, he turned on the clippers and a high-pitched buzzing noise filled the room. He didn't move for a moment, staring at the top of her head.

"So help me if you don't do it, I will." She said and he obeyed. She shut her eyes, scrunching them tight, took a breath, and let her shoulders relax. Crying wouldn't change it, but even as she told herself so, she felt tears roll down her cheeks. Hair fell away in chunks, and they watched as the first few locks fell, broken and dull in the morning sun. He continued after a moment, quietly and efficiently shaving her bald. The clippers shut off, and hesitantly, Molly lifted her hand to her head, feeling her scalp. It was bizarre, and the sensation of her fingers over her bare head startled her and made her flesh crawl. She didn't want to cry. There were worse things than losing your hair, especially since so far, her bout with cancer had been relatively easy, not to mention it was nearly over. Her hair would grow back. She suddenly felt warm lips pressed to the top of her head. Removing her hand from her scalp, Sherlock came around and knelt down before her, cupping her face and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "Don't you dare tell me I'm pretty just to make me feel better," she ordered him, sniffling. "I don't _feel_ pretty, and I certainly don't look it."

"As your fiancé and future husband, it's my honor to tell you so especially when you don't feel it," he said. "And I'm afraid you _are _still pretty, Molly Hooper," he said. She smiled a little bit then, leaning over to kiss him. He was quiet a moment, and then hesitantly offered to shave his head as well if it made her feel better, but she told him if he did she'd throw her ring at him.

"If I can't enjoy my hair, I'll at least enjoy yours," she said, tousling his curls lightly. She picked up her phone, "Here, take a picture of me," she said, a little braver now. "I want a new picture for my blog." He admired her bravery, taking the smart phone from her. Finding the camera he stepped back a ways. Before he could take a picture though, John came in, knocking on the door. Molly turned, and John almost, almost stopped where he was. He caught himself, putting on a big grin.  
"Finally got sick of spending all that money on shampoo, huh?" he kissed her forehead. "You look great,"

"Liar, but I'll take it, take a picture with me, I want a new one for my blog, oh, is Mary home? I want her in it too."

"Take one of just you for right now, I'll run upstairs and get her," John said and hurried out.

"At least I won't have to worry about my hair for the wedding pictures," Molly said. Sherlock found her silk dressing robe and helped her in it. She was seated again by the time Mary and John returned, this time smiling genuinely as Sherlock counted until he clicked the shutter. John and Mary squeezed into the frame, at the last minute turning and kissing Molly's cheeks. Surprised, she burst out laughing and Mary demanded a copy of the picture.

Mycroft descended upon them, not quite breaking up the merriment, but they did wonder why he was there if not for a case.

"I noted at your last session you were in the beginning stages of alopecia," he said, handing her a box. "Knowing you, you wouldn't wait long before you decided to simply cut it all off, I expect you'll want something to protect your head from the sun." In the plain box was several pashmina scarves, and at least six Hermès scarves. Molly was delighted and kissed him on the cheek in thanks. He didn't know how else to respond to that but look uncomfortable.

"I'm going to make you jelly buttons," she declared. "If Mary will help me." He declined to sit and wait for the biscuits to be made, he had another appointment, but he promised to be back in a few hours when they were finished.

That afternoon, 221b echoed with laughter and jokes and teasing and all manner of silliness and serious talk. Sherlock played his violin badly, or beautifully, depending on the girl's shrieking laughter and what embarrassing story John insisted on sharing with them of when they were flat mates. Sherlock was pleased Molly was so much herself again. Indeed, the doctors had said she would have low-points; the important thing was to help her through them.

"I want a picture with you," Molly said during a lull in conversation. Mary had run upstairs for something, and John had just picked up the paper. "John will you take it for us?"

"Yeah, where do you want it?"

"Here in the kitchen, by the table," Molly pulled Sherlock from his violin, bringing him by the hand. He followed obediently, allowing her to bring his arms around her waist. John smiled, looking through the viewfinder as Sherlock smiled down at Molly. She was looking at the camera, smiling, waiting for John to click the shutter when suddenly, Sherlock got a terribly wicked idea. Sherlock bent, pressing his lips to her neck, and blew the loudest raspberry he possibly could. It was so unexpected that Molly burst into a hysterical fit of laughter, jerking out of his arms, but he held her tightly as John roared with laughter.

"You dare tell Mycroft I ever did that, I'll flay you," Sherlock said. "Honestly Molly, control yourself." So they had two pictures together, one of Molly out of focus as Sherlock grinned mischievously at her, another of them both beaming at the camera, an extra twinkle in Molly's eyes. It was exceedingly rare for Sherlock to ever do anything so ridiculous and silly; in fact Molly could only think of one other time that Sherlock had done anything similar (the time he drew a mustache on his face and impersonated a waiter came to mind). It had been years since he'd done something even remotely like that, and John was sure only Molly could move him to do so again.

~O~

The following week, Sherlock and Mary spent most of Molly's chemo session learning different ways to tie a headscarf. Mary had also knitted her a beret of soft grey wool, and Sherlock's parents sent over a beautiful Brussels lace shawl.

"Mummy sends her regards," Sherlock said, handing her the parcel. Molly was quite touched; she logged on to Skype that evening to call up his parents. Secretly, Sherlock was pleased she and his mother got on so well. Though he could do without the photo albums being pulled out, boasting pictures of him as a baby. Her mood seemed to have improved since she'd lost her hair. Perhaps she looked on it as another step towards recovery. She only had four months to go until the chemotherapy was over, and only one month until the wedding. Breaking custom of the groom not knowing what the bride was wearing on her wedding day, Molly asked Sherlock to accompany her and Mary to the bridal shop. At first he declined. He couldn't care less what Molly wore, as long as she showed up. In the end he went along, only because John said he would tag along as well. They made an odd group, bustling into the bridal salon. Molly seemed to know just what she was looking for, tugging Mary along by the hand, following the consultant. Molly stepped up onto the showroom, turning to face the mirrors.

"Oh Molls that's fantastic!" John said happily. Mary was beaming, snapping pictures on her phone and sending them to Mrs. Holmes who was very sorry she couldn't make it to London for the dress shopping. Molly turned at last to the groom, who had thus-far sat uncomfortably on the couch, texting Lestrade details about a case he couldn't be bothered to leave Baker Street for.

"Sherlock, what do you think?" he'd heard her, sort of.

"Hm?" John slapped him upside the head and he snapped to attention, not before affixing a glare to his friend. He looked over to Molly, opening his mouth to say the usual pleasantries 'Nice dress' or 'very pretty' and so on. Only nothing came out. He was aware of breathing, that was good. Molly was smiling, her eyes were shining, and her usually pale face was absolutely aglow.

"I think he approves," the bridal consultant was laughing. Molly blushed, smoothing down the tea-length skirt.

"Let's try the veil with it," Mary said, unwrapping the Brussels lace Sherlock's mother had sent. A wreath of silk flowers was brought as well.

"I'll have real flowers, for the wedding," Molly said, "but it's just to get an idea," the veil in place, she turned to face Sherlock again, Mary straightening the edges. Everyone was looking at him, but he only had eyes for Molly.

Sherlock could only do so much, as much as he loved Molly, he could not merely sit for eight hours while she recuperated, watching Doctor Who and flipping BBC mystery soap operas. Mary disliked science fiction shows, so that was where John stepped in. Didn't matter what the television show was, he'd sit and watch it, be the peanut gallery and make Molly laugh until she cried. When she got sick of television, he played cat's cradle and game after game of poker. When they both got sick of betting candy (in Molly's case it was fruit with the skin peeled off) they pulled down the boxes of games Sherlock kept up in the cupboard for when Mycroft came visiting. That was how Sherlock and Mary found them one afternoon, John swearing at the board as Molly gloated.

"Do-over, I call a bloody do-over!"

"What on earth are you two doing? We can hear you from the street!" Mary asked incredulously.

"That is the fifth time you sank my battleship! No one is that good!" John was out of his chair, walking back and forth as Molly cackled in her seat until she was limp. Mary only shook her head, exchanging grins with Sherlock before heading upstairs to start dinner. Between John, Mrs. Hudson and Mary, they took turns cooking dinner on Wednesdays. Sometimes Sherlock could be persuaded, but only if Molly asked.

That was a very good day too. She still had her bad days of course.

Her next chemo session was almost six hours, and it left her so bone-weary she couldn't hold herself upright and Sherlock had to carry her out of the cab. Mary and Mrs. Hudson fussed and worried over her while John and Sherlock quietly argued in the corner over him taking a case on such a night as that with Molly so ill. In the end, Sherlock took Mary with him on the case, (Molly insisted) and John stayed behind, grumbling all the while.

"Don't be upset with him," Molly said tiredly. "It's good for him to go."

"He should be here with you," he was putting her feet up on the couch, over his lap. He squeezed the tops and soles of her feet, knowing her circulation was poor after a long day of sitting.

"He's here when he knows I need him," Molly said quietly, and John looked up.

"Hm?"

"Anyone can do what you're doing right now," he smirked.

"Thank you so much," he answered glibly.

"You know what I mean," she said. "If you were called in to work, or something, Mrs. Hudson could come up and sit with me. It does Sherlock no good to sit and worry and fret over me, he'd think himself into a panic. When I'm afraid, or when I'm too weak to wash myself, when I don't feel strong enough to face the world, that's when Sherlock stays in, no matter what, because that's when I need him." John patted her feet, his expression warm.

"You're a good woman, Molly Hooper," and she smiled.

"I try to be, don't stop, my feet were just getting warm,"

"Shall I get a hot water bottle?"

"Yes please."

No one knew that Sherlock often did much more than the others realized. As with most people, they saw but did not observe. If someone was watching the house the following Monday, they would see Sherlock Holmes assisting Molly into the cab, their expressions dour. The cab door shut between them. Head bowed, he'd be looking at his phone, she was looking up at him, doe-eyed and worried. Upset? Angry. Disappointed. It looked like a row. The person watching them shook their head at this. They failed to observe when he helped her into the cab, he held her by the waist and hand, fingers lingering around her's as long as possible. They failed to notice the background of their mobile phones was a picture of each other, and they failed to observe Molly reminding him to check his messages, she'd sent him something. Instead they saw only outward appearances. A couple, clearly having a difficult morning, short-tempered, rushing out the door, the woman obviously having trouble walking, both of them upset (late for an appointment on both ends, but he couldn't or wouldn't leave until she was off) and grousing to each other.

~O~

**St. Barts Hospital**

"Good morning Molly, how are you today?"

"Usual," she shrugged tiredly. The evening before had been particularly difficult and this morning seemed to be an extension of it.

"Very weak today," the nurse observed. "Just sit and relax, close your eyes, I'll put on the sound machine instead of the television, alright?" and Molly nodded, agreeing. "Is anyone coming to sit with you today?"

"I don't know, it depends on if he finishes the case or not."

"We're understaffed today, so I'll be in an out, but just hit the button if you need anything."

"Thank you." The door shut, and Molly closed her eyes, sighing deeply. The terrible thing about being exhausted was that her mind couldn't grasp just how tired she really was. Her body ached from tossing and turning all night. The breakfast Sherlock had insisted she eat didn't seem to give her much strength, but at least she could sit upright now. She sat quietly, listening to the sound machine, wishing Toby could come to her chemotherapy sessions, (why no one had invented a sound machine with a cat purring as a feature was beyond her) when she heard the door open slowly, creaking on its hinges. "That was quick," she murmured, eyes still shut.

"Not the first time I've heard that," a cool, very feminine, very not Sherlock, voice responded as the door shut behind them. Molly opened her eyes, blinking once, then twice, trying to be sure of who she saw there.

"No I'm sure it isn't," she heard herself answer tartly. The Woman threw her head back and laughed.

"Though she be but little, she is fierce!"

Molly stared at The Woman, at her Christian Louboutin shoes, her long legs and finely tailored dress that hugged her body just so. A cashmere coat with a fox collar hung on her arm. She looked at Irene Adler's elegant coiffure, salon-finished make-up and manicured finger nails. Then Molly looked down at her faded trousers, old, pilled cherry sweater, and mismatched socks poking out of the tops of the wine-coolers around her feet. Irene Adler crossed the room, heels clicking on the polished tile floor. Molly felt small and dumpy compared to her. She wished she'd at least worn a scarf to cover her head. She felt weaker and more vulnerable than ever. The Woman smiled at her in a way that Molly could only describe as wicked.

"Good heavens, you are a sweet thing aren't you?"

"What?" Molly blinked, the IV kept pumping the drugs through her veins and she felt herself growing more and more lethargic. She tried to remind herself that she always felt like this and that The Woman couldn't possibly have gotten hold of the bag of docetaxel and tampered with it. The seal on the bag was perfect when the nurse brought it in.

"You've nothing to fear from me," Irene said breezily. "I only came to see if what I heard was true, that Mr. Holmes was in fact going to be married."

"He's not doing it out of pity, if that's what you're hoping for," Molly said, drawing up whatever strength she had (which was not very much) and putting as much of it as she could into her voice.

"I have no doubt of his affection for you," Irene said. "I am…surprised," she shrugged. "I offered him," she smirked. "Well…a good deal more than I've willingly offered anyone else," she beamed at Molly. "Men can be so fickle, can't they?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Oh I think you do, Molly Hooper, you and Jim had quite a little fling."  
"We only went on three dates, I ended it," she said, feeling her voice was faint. Irene laughed.

"How do you feel about that, by the way? You broke off with the world's only Consulting Criminal? Sent him rather over the edge, didn't you? You clever girl, you." Irene looked at the IV drip and the docetaxel in the bag. Molly thought about just how helpless she was at this moment. Even if she had the strength, she wouldn't be able to get the ice wraps off quick enough for her to block an attack. Irene Adler could easily increase the dosage, or slip a needle into the IV and kill her. As if reading her thoughts, The Woman sat down, covering her mittened hand in her well-manicured fingers. "Don't worry dear," she smiled kindly. "I'm not here to kill you," she traced a finger along Molly's pale cheek. She actually looked sorrowful as she looked over Molly's features. "Poor little Molly, how ill you've been, what it must do to Sherlock," she leaned back in the chair, sighing. "He must be in the absolute palm of your hand; what women wouldn't do to be in your shoes. It's certainly a round-about way of getting his attention!" Molly couldn't speak, too furious at The Woman to form a coherent enough sentence. Nobody wanted to be in this position, no matter who they were married (going to be married) to. No one wanted to be recovering from a double mastectomy, have to ask someone else to cut their hair because they were too afraid to. No one wanted to sit with an IV drip of essential a cocktail of toxic waste being pumped into their blood stream, living day after day with vomiting, diarrhea, mucositis, chemo-brain and the never-ending exhaustion that followed her wherever it went. The Women kept on talking, not quite noticing. "I suppose that's why he never did answer my texts," she said, getting to her feet and wandering around the room. She picked up the deck of cards, frowning at it a moment and then placed it back on the desk. "I don't know how to have anything but my way, it's just easier. I'm afraid I made him feel less like a man, and men so do hate to be brought down to less than what they are."

"Why are you here?" Molly finally asked.

"Sherlock saved my life, and so I'm saving his, by staying out of it." Molly looked up at her, eyes red from exhaustion, face gray from nausea. "You're looking at me and wondering what went on between Sherlock Holmes and me," Irene said. She shrugged. "He turned me down." Molly frowned.

"I- what?" The Woman shook her head.

"Oh don't mistake, I made several offers, I'm sure he did…entertain the idea. But he wouldn't have it," her gaze flicked back over to Molly's still form. "Perhaps his conscience was pricked even then by a certain little pathologist?" she sidled back over to the chair, studying her. "The one we all forgot," she murmured, and suddenly her eyes glittered. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you clever, clever boy!" she knelt down, peering at Molly's face. "You were the one on the inside! The one who helped him pull it off!" she was gleeful, a fascinated twinkle in her eye as she regarded Molly Hooper, somewhat more reverently now. "How did you do it? How did he survive?" Molly only looked back at her. She certainly wouldn't tell her, but she did enjoy the smug satisfaction of knowing something The Woman did not.

"He isn't coming today you know," Molly said. "He's got a case…he's busy."  
"And he left you here all alone?" Irene asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"_I miss having eyebrows…"_ Molly thought suddenly. "No of course not," she said aloud. "A friend is coming to sit with me."

"A 'friend'?" Irene asked skeptically.

"Yes…John's wife,"

"Oh yes, the nurse," she nodded, remembering. "Oh don't be so surprised, I know about the entire goings on in 221b Baker Street. Does Sherlock still have that darling coverlet?" Molly frowned, not quite knowing how to take that. The Woman only smiled. "Just so you know…no, nothing ever happened between us." Molly was almost grateful for the nausea that kept her from opening her mouth, almost. "I thought you'd like to know, you seem like the type to care who he was with before…to be honest I don't think he was with anyone before…or at least anyone that mattered to him," she shrugged. "Pity." She was lost in thought for a moment until she heard Molly Hooper shift in her seat.

"Bowl," Molly croaked. She fumbled, the mitts making it impossible to reach the call-button, so Irene bent, taking the remote from her and pressing the button. In a moment the nurse appeared, one glance at the heart monitor startled her.

"She's going to be sick I'm afraid," Irene Adler informed the nurse.

"Molly, Molly, your heart is racing, you need to calm down," the nurse put the bowl under her chin. "Look at me, just focus on me, you're okay, your husband is on his way, he just telephoned us." Molly glanced sharply over the nurse' shoulder to the Woman. Her eyes sparkled with some unknown mischief, and it gave Molly a sinking feeling in her gut. Her head swam and she wished her thoughts would organize themselves so that she could make some kind of retort. That she didn't need The Woman's confirmation that nothing had gone on between them before. It didn't matter if it had. That was all years ago now. Some small part of Molly, the irrational part, worried that Sherlock loved The Woman, that he secretly wished Molly was more like her. She felt the bile in her throat and finally gave way, choking as it came up. "That's the way," the nurse soothed. "Here," she took the glass of water,

"I'll do that," Irene said, "I'm sure that needs to be washed out," she nodded to the sick bowl. The nurse nodded, smiling her thanks to the Woman and ducked out, reassuring Molly that she'd be right back. Irene held the cup to Molly's lips, helping her drink.

"_Why_…are you here?" she asked weakly. "What can you _possibly_ want from me?"

"I came to size up my competition," Irene said, reaching for the cloth and wiping her chin. "I see now I don't have a prayer." Her tone was soft, honest and, dare Molly say it, humble. "I just want to know…is he happy?"

"What do you care?" Molly bit out. Irene was taken aback by the venom in her eyes. Pale and sickly, weak as a kitten and yet fierce as a lioness was the pathologist. She was not who she appeared to be, Irene could see that, yet she wasn't an unsolvable puzzle. Sherlock loved puzzles, but only ones he could beat. Irene smiled at Molly Hooper. No, this was not a woman who Sherlock could merely deduce and cast aside. Molly Hooper was at her lowest at this moment; to the average observer she was sick, poorly dressed and looked haggard and aged. Yet Irene Adler was not by any standards 'average'. She studied Molly, finding the fire and bite in her eyes, not from jealousy that Irene may have been intimate with her fiancé, but that she posed as a threat to him.

"Wrong question, I see," Irene shrugged, changing tactics. "Very well. Does he make _you_ happy?" the anger and hurt in Molly's eyes faded somewhat. Before she could stop herself, she had let her guard down. Her thoughts drifted over to just that morning. She was so weak she couldn't make it down the stairs, so Sherlock had carried her. He'd held her upright in the shower the evening before so that she could bathe. He played her songs on his violin and even in the still of night would sing quietly to her when she couldn't sleep. He held her hand every day and told her she was beautiful, especially when she didn't believe it. Most importantly, he _spoke_ to her. He told her about his day, about problems he was having with a particular experiment or case (his way of asking for input). He trusted her with his life, as well as the little ordinary things and she could give nothing less in return.

"I see from the shine in your eyes I have my answer," Irene said quietly. Molly blinked, suddenly remembering The Woman was there. "And I suppose if he's left you speechless and he isn't even in the room, what _you_ must do to him," Molly flushed red and Irene laughed. "Do take care of him, Miss Hooper, soon to be 'Mrs. Holmes', I daresay if anyone ought to have that surname, it should be the Woman Who Counted." She bent, pressing a kiss to her bare forehead. "And do take care of yourself; don't let him do anything less than spoil you Miss Hooper. One of us at least ought to have that pleasure." Before Molly could speak, The Woman was gone, out the door and down the hall. The nurse returned

"Where's your friend, that woman?"

"She had to go…" Molly said and then looked up. "Sorry…you said my husband was coming?"

"Yes, I'll make sure they send him right up as soon as he gets here."

~O~

She must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes Sherlock was in the chair beside her, deep in thought.

"Why was The Woman here?" he asked quietly. Molly looked startled. "Faint traces of lipstick on your head, wiped it off, don't worry, it's a very particular shade of red, only two brands sell it, one was discontinued ten years ago, also the perfume on this chair. I remember it because when she returned my coat she'd sprayed it like a bloody cat with it, took me ages to get it out, then there's the print-out that was monitoring your heart-rate, it spiked several times in the first two hours, ordinarily you sleep during those hours."

"Mycroft must have given you the CCTV tapes," Molly said.

"He's going over them now, I've yet to see them, what did she want, Molly?"

"I don't know…" she shook her head, frowning. "I honestly don't…she asked me if I was happy with you."

"And are you?" her smile was warm, her voice soft.

"Yes."

"What else did she want?"

"To know if you were happy with me."

"What did you tell her?" when she didn't answer, he stopped pacing, turning to look down at her. "Molly?"

"Sometimes I wonder _how_ you could be happy with me…the way I am…" she blinked, finding her vision was blurry. "I _know_ you are, Sherlock, I do…but please…please tell me you are…let me hear you."

"I am happy with you, Molly Hooper," he was holding her wrist; her hands were still wrapped in the ice mitts. He kissed her then, pressing a kiss to each eyelid and finally her mouth.

"Just for a moment, when she came in and I met her…she was…and me just as I am now…I just worried you weren't happy. You didn't agree to all this…"

"Yes I did," he frowned. "I knew exactly who I was proposing to, and what that entailed," he stood up, crossing the room.

"You didn't know how difficult it would be," Molly replied. "You couldn't."

"How long did you wonder?" he asked. "About me I mean?" he looked at her, studying her carefully. _Bags under her eyes, red from crying and exhaustion, too thin, needs to eat more, sweater needs to be de-pilled but she's too tired to do so. Mis-matched socks mean she couldn't find the mates, she didn't do the laundry, I did. _

"Just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity." Molly answered quietly. "I know the answer," she reaffirmed. "But it's hard to put it in words sometimes." He nodded.

"Yes it is."

When the chemo session ended, they were just leaving the hospital when one of the receptionists handed them an envelope.

"This was left for you Miss Hooper,"

"Oh, thank you," she murmured and took it, finding it wasn't sealed. She pulled out the note card.

"That's Her hand writing," Sherlock frowned at the note.

"Find a cab," Molly said, "We'll read it together," he nodded, hurrying to the sidewalk.

Tucked safely inside, she read the note from The Woman:

"_As Molly hasn't seen much of the world, I expect you to take her somewhere absolutely ravishing, Sherlock. If Italy does not suit your tastes, by all means exchange them. – IA"_

In the envelope, Molly pulled out two tickets booked for a first-class flight to Venice for that coming October, well after she would be finished with her chemotherapy. Sherlock was quiet.

"Do you not want to go?" Molly asked. "Would it make you uncomfortable?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, quite sincere. "No it doesn't." She tucked the envelope and tickets into her purse, resting her head against Sherlock. He was not sorry he'd missed seeing The Woman. He'd said his goodbyes three years ago when he saved her in the Middle East. He was delighted with the ease he could dismiss that chapter of his life, recalling only mutual respect for The Woman. He looked down at Molly, curled against him, head nodding as the cab rattled down the streets of London, bringing them home. Bending his head low, his mouth near her ear, he smiled.  
"I love you, Molly Hooper." Her grip around his waist tightened just a little, and her voice was muffled by the collar of her coat.

"I love you too."


	6. But Always

_Not as long as previous chapters, but it's a decent length methinks. It's the end of a short story, I'm so glad so many have enjoyed it, I hope it's a fitting end, (I think it is at any rate). Thank you for all the reviews and positive feedback, for the PM's regarding where I might have made a mistake or little reminders, thank you very much! They're helpful, and it's always appreciated that you do so via private message rather than scold outright in the review box. You guys are amazing! Stay tuned to my channel for upcoming related one-shots (I've got a couple in mind!). Thanks again for all the follows and favorites! Lyrics posted at the end of the chapter are from Paul McCartney's rendition of "Always". Love this song, and it inspired this fic. So props to that song, go buy it, it's really pretty. _

* * *

"There, what do you think?" Mary stepped back from the bride so that John could see. His smile reached his eyes, though as he looked her up and down, there was always that one moment (she always caught it) of sorrow when he saw her shaved head. It wasn't that she was not pretty any more without her hair, but it was something else she had to sacrifice while she underwent chemo.

"You look beautiful," John said honestly and Molly smiled. Her head was still shaved, so she wore a wreath of flowers, securing the veil over her head. She'd thought at one point or another of getting a wig, but she finally decided against it. Hats and scarves were cheaper, and Molly found herself happily collecting them by the dozens, the bright colors cheering her far more than a mess of hair that wasn't hers. Besides, she was lucky. Her chemo would only last until September. There were others who would need the wig more than she would. Sherlock didn't mind her being bald, so why should she? Sometimes, on very bad days, she felt sorry for herself and hated that she couldn't braid her hair or even look normal. She hated people staring at her, (even if they understood why she was bald, she still disliked the attention drawn to her).

"Are you ready?" Mary asked and she nodded, feeling a fluttering in her chest.

"You're sure Sherlock has the ring?"

"Yes, he gave it to me for safe-keeping," she pulled the wedding band out of the pocket of her dress. "And John's got the other," There was a knock on the door before it opened.

"Just me," came the clipped voice of Mycroft Holmes. "I trust my sister in-law to be is ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Molly said. "Are those my flowers?"

"Yes, my brother said to give them to you, I suppose they're nice, if you go in for that sort of thing," he sneezed violently, fishing through his pocket for a kerchief.

"Are you allergic?" Molly asked, taking the bouquet from him, liking the cabbage roses especially. Here and there among the fragrant blooms were ranunculuses and a sprig or two of heliotrope. Molly admired the bouquet, inhaling the fragrant blooms.

"No," Mycroft blew his nose, glaring at the flowers. "You two ought to be out there," he said to John and Mary, who each checked their respective watches.

"Yes, you're right," John kissed Molly's cheek, followed by Mary before they hurried out the door.

"Well, Miss Hooper, are you quite certain you want to be tied up with my baby brother? If I know either of you, I know divorce is not something you would take lightly."

"You're right, it isn't. And yes, I'm sure," Molly said. Mycroft only smiled, she wasn't quite sure if he was sincere or sarcastic.

"Then I am obliged to present you with this as well," he said, and handed her a box. Rather than give him the bouquet and start another allergy attack, she set it on the bench before taking the ribbon from the box, opening the hinged lid.

"It was our grandmother's," He explained. "Mummy always said whoever of us got married first, their bride would have them to wear," he went on as she lifted the string of pearls from the box. In the middle of the necklace was an imperfect pearl. It caught Molly's eye right away, at first it was the shape, different than the rest, but the color was so exceptional she hardly cared that they didn't match the others.

"This necklace used to bother me," Mycroft said, taking it from her trembling hands and turning her to face the mirror so he could help her with the clasp. "Mummy's explanation that the pearl in the middle wasn't meant to be perfect, it was supposed to be different always seemed foolishly romantic, insipid. I expect she meant the color was much clearer, despite its shape, and all the prettier for it." Molly held her veil out of the way so he could see to hook it. "It took me years to understand her meaning that being unique has its advantages, it makes one stand out. Shining in ways the average person cannot." He stood beside her, looking at her reflection in the mirror. "I knew if ever my brother were to marry, it would hardly be an average woman." He finished quietly. With the tips of her fingers, she touched the necklace. She didn't know Mycroft to be capable of kind words, or at least say them and mean them. She turned then, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He did not know quite how to respond to this, awkwardly patting her shoulder before clearing his throat.

"Yes well…all the best," he murmured opened the door, standing aside for her.

Sherlock's father was waiting in the hallway; Mycroft stepped quickly between them, hurrying to his own seat beside his and Sherlock's mother.

"Thank you for seeing me down the aisle," Molly said quietly. She'd only met him twice before, once, when Sherlock took her to them to announce their engagement, and then again the night of the rehearsal dinner. She liked Mr. Holmes right away; he reminded her of her own father before he got sick. The Holmes' were nothing like she envisioned Sherlock and Mycroft's parents to be like. She had expected…well…not the Violet and Sigurd Holmes. Modest, simple and happy, quite the ordinary couple, compared to their children. Mr. Holmes smiled at her, squeezing her hand.

"You look very pretty," he said quietly as the music started. John held Mrs. Hudson by the arm, guiding her down the aisle, followed by Mary, the matron of honor, absolutely radiant and glowing at seven months pregnant, despite the hot July they were all enduring. Sherlock rocked on his heels at the end of the aisle, seeing at the very end Molly, on his father's arm. The church wasn't even partway filled, Molly had no family to speak of, and Sherlock only cared to invite his parents and brother. There were a few of Molly's workmates, and some from Scotland Yard. It didn't matter really how many were there. The important people were in attendance, and most importantly Sherlock and Molly were happy together. What mattered most was all said in a few moments. Rings exchanged and first kiss as man and wife shared. Mary burst into tears, (she later blamed hormones) and Mrs. Hudson got everyone to pelt fistfuls of confetti at them (much to Mycroft's chagrin).

"Where are you going for a honeymoon?" Mrs. Hudson asked over the wedding supper.

"We decided to go away in October, after Molly's finished with the treatments." Sherlock said.

"He's taking me to Venice," Molly added, a blushing grin spreading across her features.

"How much longer do you have to go before you're finished?" Greg asked.

"September," Molly answered. A piece of cake was handed to her but she shook her head, frowning. Sweets didn't appeal to her since she'd begun chemo.

"You ought to eat something," Sherlock said to her, low, so others wouldn't hear.

"Not really hungry," she shrugged.

"Eat anyway, I made sure of fresh fruit," he said. "The chicken had the sauce on the side as well; shall I get you a plate?" She knew he wouldn't let her be until she agreed so she nodded.

"I hope you'll come stay with us soon," Violet Holmes sat next to her as soon as Sherlock left to find a plate. "I know we're not close to London, but if you need a holiday after everything, we'd be happy to have you, very peaceful, our neck of the woods. Sherlock wouldn't mind, I know, we've just had a few new hives put in, it will give him something to do."

"I'll talk to him," Molly said. "But I would love to."

"The pearls suit you," Violet commented, and Molly touched the necklace, beaming.  
"Thank you, by the way, Mycroft gave them to me this afternoon, they're beautiful."

"Sherlock asked me for them, I was a little surprised, he doesn't often go in for sentiment, but I'm pleased in some things he does, especially for you."

Sherlock returned with a plate for Molly, seating himself again. Violet excused herself, kissing her son before she headed back to her table.

"She wants us to visit," he stated.

"Yes, we talked a little of it, why? Don't you want to?"

"It's a burden I must bear each year," he sighed heavily. "I suppose you want to go?"

"I do," she nodded, picking up her knife and fork. "Your mother said your father has built some beehives, they thought it might interest you." He looked at her, eyebrow quirking.

"Bees?" he queried, thoughtful. "Well…I suppose a week or so in the country wouldn't do any harm," he said carefully. "Unless of course I have a case-" she nudged him with her elbow.

"You want to go now, and you know it," she said.

"It's good to see you eat," he changed the subject. She hummed in response.

"I suppose I was hungrier than I thought, thank you for setting all this up, it's wonderful," she set her fork down a moment, reaching for his hand. "Really, you've been brilliant this year."  
"'This year'?" he echoed.

"Yes," she nodded, knowing what he was getting at. "Extra brilliant, if you like," and the corners of his mouth turned up. Suddenly a familiar song came on and Molly turned toward the dance floor, couples began to sway in time to the music.

"We haven't had a dance yet," he said quietly. Her smile was soft, eyes warm.

"I don't know that I have too much strength to dance," she began.

"I'll help you," he took her hand, leading her out to the floor. It was one of Molly's favorite songs, indeed she often sang it. Sherlock knew what she liked best, and made sure it was on the playlist for the wedding. He held her close, supporting her as she leaned against him, carefully moving them in time to the music.

Afterwards she rested for a bit at the table, eating a little more, knowing it would please Sherlock. When she was up to it she'd dance with him, knowing he loved to dance (a carefully kept secret).

"I wonder if the best man can get a dance from the bride," John said, and Molly smiled, agreeing.

"Come on then, you can dance with me," Mary said, seeing Sherlock's look of 'What about me?'.

"You okay?" John asked. "You're not too tired?"

"I'm always tired," Molly shrugged. "But I think I'm coming round,"

"Think you can manage our boy?" he asked, nodding his head to Sherlock, who had started out dancing with Mary, but Violet had cut in.

"I think so," Molly, smiled a little, a twinkle in her eye. "Can he handle me, that is the question." John laughed outright.

"I don't suppose the brother in-law would want to cut in?" John asked suddenly, seeing Mycroft nearby.

"You suppose correctly, Doctor Watson," Mycroft answered.

"Oh come on, it's easy," John said and moved them closer; he stepped away from Molly so Mycroft had no choice. He looked almost embarrassed. Almost being that Mycroft rarely allowed himself to appear as anything other than disinterested, mostly because he _wasn't_ interested in the goings on around him.  
"I- well…far be it from me to decline a wish from my new sister in-law," he said, attempting a smile, he took her arm.

"You don't have to," Molly said.

"Nonsense, I may not have my brother's prowess on the dance floor but I do enjoy confounding him from time to time," Mycroft said. Sure enough, Sherlock was watching them over Violet's head, looking rather confused.

The bride and groom left earlier than the rest of the guests, leaving them to dance the night away, slipping away back to 221b, Sherlock happily swearing off ever rolling out the sofa-bed ever again as Molly would now be sleeping in his room.

"Our room," she corrected, and smiled up at him.

"Why didn't you ever start sleeping there sooner?" he asked, helping her out of the taffeta dress (she couldn't reach the buttons on the back).

"I'm old-fashioned," she shrugged. "And I know you wouldn't let Toby sleep on the bed with me."

"I most certainly would too," he snorted. "Perhaps not during certain activities-" she laughed at him then, he grew indignant, only for a moment before he smirked, deciding to kiss her rather than start an argument.

The months drifted by, September saw the end of Molly's chemotherapy, and 221b was an absolute mad-house with everyone pouring in to celebrate. Molly's doctor said the cancer was in remission now, and if that were not enough to celebrate, there was also the birth of John and Mary's baby girl, and Baker Street was suddenly in need of baby-proofing, which Sherlock attacked with fervor, despite John's doubts that the baby was going to be able to crawl onto the roof via a ladder she clearly would not reach until she was at least ten.  
"There are stranger things," Sherlock sniffed, "Who knows? Perhaps you and Mary have given the world another Sherlock Holmes,"

"God forbid," John and Mary both replied, laughing. Now it was Molly's turn to pamper Mary, and she happily did so, helping with meals and straighten the house while Mary got back on her feet.

In October, Sherlock and Molly departed for Italy, which for the first week was as expected, sunny days, lovely beaches and wonderful evenings. That is until there was a murder in the hotel adjacent to them and Sherlock was called upon. As John was busy being a new father, Sherlock turned to Molly, who happily filled in, helping chase a murderer halfway to Greece before he was finally caught. It was the best holiday she'd thus-far been on, and they returned, Sherlock bursting at the seams with news about the case, and the brilliancy of Molly's instrumental assistance throughout.

Slowly, Molly's strength was returning, the effects of the chemo wore off, and by spring, her hair was growing back nicely, and Molly, who had grown so used to wearing scarves, suddenly didn't know what to do with herself.

"Let's go to the salon, we'll get a trim together," Mary suggested.

"I do feel a bit like a shaggy dog," Molly laughed; she ran her fingers through her hair, suddenly finding herself teary-eyed. "Good grief…" she murmured. She looked at Mary, eyes full of tears, and she began to laugh. Mary kissed her cheek, squeezing her shoulder. "It's so strange," Molly sniffed, wiping her eyes. "It feels absolutely…strange, getting my hair cut,"

"Color is the same," Mary commented. "Feels thicker though, doesn't it?"

"It does," Molly agreed. "Help me choose a style."

~O~

Molly still had appointments with the doctor, though they were further between now, once every three months. By May she was due to go in for her usual check-up, and as Sherlock was busy with a case, she went by herself, feeling confident enough to go.

"Text me if you hear anything," he said. He got nervous about her check-ups. It had been eight months since the doctor told them the cancer was in remission, and Molly was truly back to her old self. She'd filled out again, her appetite was back, and she was quite pleased to be able to visit her favorite chip shop again whenever she pleased (which was increasing by the week it seemed).

"I will," Molly promised. "I'm sure everything is fine," she kissed him goodbye, hailing a cab. He watched her go, not quite knowing what was different, but something certainly was. He couldn't tell if it was bad or good, but he disliked not knowing. He was irritable for the rest of the day, biting at every insipid question someone threw at him, at one point making the victim's mother cry (John had to pull him out after that).

"If you can't behave, then go home," John said.

"No," he answered stubbornly.

"Then smarten up," Sherlock's phone buzzed and he fumbled through his pockets, digging it out.

"Yes? What? What is it?" his voice a pitch higher than usual. His face seemed to fall. "Yes, are you sure? I can come and get you- where? No I can go now if you like. Shall John come too?"

"What is it? What's wrong?" John was asking.

"Hey, we need you in here," Greg said

"Shh!" Both John and Sherlock hissed.

"It's Molly," John said in answer to Greg's questioning look.

"I'm on my way, meet you at the flat," Sherlock hung up. He looked soberly at John and Greg. "Molly has news; she won't tell me over the phone."

"Geeze…" John choked out. "Geeze, I'll get a cab," Sherlock stood where he was, staring into the middle-distance.

"She'd tell me over the phone," he said quietly, Greg didn't speak, just looking at him. "She would tell me…unless it was very bad."

"It's gonna be okay," Greg said finally, and he squeezed his shoulder. "Whatever happens, we're all gonna be with you and Molly."

"Cab's here," John said, out of breath from sprinting up the stairs.

"Text when you find out," Greg called after them.

In 221b, John and Sherlock bolted up the stairs, causing such a racket that Mrs. Hudson and Mary both appeared.

"What on earth-"

"John what is it? What's the matter?"

"Is Molly here?" Sherlock asked, pounding up the steps.

"She just came in I think-"

"Molly!"

"Molls-"

"I'm here, good heavens-" Molly answered, the door to 221b was propped open.

"What is it? What's the matter?" Sherlock demanded.

"Should we go?" John asked.

"No, not if you don't want to," Molly was almost laughing at them. Seeing Sherlock's expression, she sobered quickly. "Oh- oh I frightened you, Sherlock I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's not…" he began. "You're not…still in remission?" he asked.

"Yes, yes everything is fine," John let out a staggering breath, sinking into a kitchen chair. Sherlock bowed his head, finding his breath again.

"Goodness, I didn't mean to frighten you," Molly said, reaching for him.

"What did you need us to come home for then?" John asked.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm going to have to make appointments with the doctor now, at least every month,"  
"Every month?" both John and Sherlock frowned. There was a twinkle in Mary's eye, she could hazard a guess.

"Yes, not my usual one mind, I mean my gynecologist."

"Your-" Sherlock did a double-take. John covered his mouth almost grinning. Mrs. Hudson squeaked in delight, clapping her hands. "Molly Hooper-"

"-Holmes," she corrected. Taking her husband's hand, she put it over the swell of her abdomen. "Let's see if you can deduce with that clever brain of yours," she smiled.

"You're going to have a baby."

"_We _are going to have a baby." She corrected. John was ushering Mary and Mrs. Hudson out, despite their protests.

Sherlock looked somewhere between puzzled and shocked, staring at the middle distance.

"Hey," she squeezed his shoulders. "Is this okay? I mean…I know we never talked about it, we never even considered it-"

"You wanted children before," he cut her off. She sank back down onto her heels, having stood on tip-toe to reach him.

"Yes."

"I cannot promise to be a very good father," he said.

"You've proven thus-far to be a rather good husband," she answered. "Goodness knows you didn't know anything about that."

"What about the cancer?"

"It's in remission," she confirmed again. "The doctors said it's perfectly normal, even after the surgery. Lots of women have babies after mastectomies."

"So…it's not…it won't be dangerous?"

"No more than usual," Molly shrugged. Sherlock let out a breath then, hugging her outright. He didn't care what happened, as long as it wasn't a danger to her. _Them._ It was alarming that so suddenly his brain was registering the plural now, correcting him. Sherlock Holmes never planned on being a father. It idea hadn't really appealed to him. Indeed his own relationship with his father was…not the best. It wasn't that they hated each other; they just had nothing in common. Sherlock knew his parents loved him, but the cloying sweetness, the over-protectiveness, the insistence of playing football together and the family game nights, the need to share each moment of the day even though how they were spent was easily seen by anyone with eyes…were these things Molly would insist upon? They didn't seem like things she'd do, but then, new mothers were often over-protective, especially if they had sons. Sherlock could recall the earth-shattering loneliness of not being able to really see eye-to-eye with his own father, and that he was truly alone. Especially after Mycroft left for school and there was no one to really talk to. He worried his own relationship with this new child might be the same. It would disappoint Molly if Sherlock thought that their child was simple-minded. But then again, it might not be. After all, his parents didn't know what to expect when it came to him and Mycroft. Sherlock could deduce and act accordingly. Besides, it wouldn't be that he wouldn't love the child. Of course he would. It was something brought forth from his and Molly's affection for each other. Indeed the actual science of procreation did merit some thought, perhaps even further study. He'd deleted a good deal of the information. Perhaps he could look on this as a long-term experiment; it would certainly keep him busy. And Molly could handle all the dull things...cuddling and so forth.

"What is it?" she asked, seeing him deep in thought. "You don't want it…" she trailed off.

"Not entirely." He set his coat aside, turning to face her again. "It should prove interesting at any rate." She blinked, not quite trusting her hearing.

"You- you're not upset?"

"Not at all, why should I be?" he queried. She studied him a moment. "A baby is _unexpected_, not unwelcome." He said. "I had not, until this moment, considered ever being a father, but now as there is little choice in the matter, and you seem particularly happy about it."

"You're _not_ experimenting on the baby," she pointed a finger at him.

"Molly-"

"Sherlock-"

"I would never put the child in any _real_ danger-"

"Sherlock-"

"_Fine." _She slipped her arms around his waist; rising up on her tiptoes she kissed him.

"Are you truly alright about it?"

"I haven't any other choice have I?" she looked up at him, torn between being thrilled that she carried their child, and the prospect that it also might mean his unhappiness. "I'm not upset," he promised. "I cannot promise to be a very good father, I am not John Watson."

"I didn't marry John," she replied. "Would I be so excited about this baby if I didn't know who its father was?" he didn't answer, so she continued. "Weren't you the one who also said you wouldn't be a good husband? No, you're not perfect, but who is?" she shrugged. "If I wanted the average husband and average household…I wouldn't be here," she pressed her forehead against his. "Don't underestimate me." He smiled then.

"I never have." He kissed her once more, before releasing his grip on her, turning to his chair while she headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "What did the doctor say? How far along are you?"

"I'm seven weeks along, so far everything checks out; in a few weeks we'll be able to have the first sonogram."

"We're going to have to go over the flat, safety-proof it."

"Later on, yes," Molly laughed.

"-order a crib too," Sherlock went on. "One of those child-strap things…holds the baby-" he gestured over his chest with his hands. "Thing-…good for the baby to hear the mother's heart-"

"A carrier?" Molly supplied, enjoying seeing him already making plans.

"Mm, yes…two-way radios as well-"

"A baby monitor-"

"Same thing," he shrugged. "Incidentally, how do you feel about being wired for a –"

"No."

"I didn't even finish!"

"I heard 'wired', that was enough for me," she answered. She paused suddenly. "Aren't you on a case?"

"Hmm? Oh yes. Suppose I should text Greg."

"You left the case?" she echoed. "Sherlock!"

"Molly." He tapped out a quick text, setting the mobile down on the arm of the chair. "You said to come home, I came home."

"I meant when you were finished!"

"I was…nearly…" he shrugged. He drummed his fingers along the armrest.

"You want to go back," she said.

"You've just told me we are expecting, I'm supposed to stay here and celebrate with you…have tea and so forth."

"You can have tea when you come home, after you solved the case," she said, pulling him to his feet. "Go on. I can spare you for a little while more," she smiled. "I know you want to." She rose up on tip-toe just barely out of reach.

"You…Mrs. Holmes…are not making a very good case in your favor…"

"Aren't I?" he made to kiss her but she rested back on her heels, leaving him ducking at the empty air. She grinned mischievously at him. "Go on, sooner you solve it the sooner you can come home and we can celebrate properly." Catching the full meaning entirely of that, he snatched his coat, pressing her just once with a kiss before bolting for the door.  
"John, get down here, the game is on!" he bellowed upstairs.

"We just got in!" the doctor shouted back.

"And now we're going back out, case to solve, come on, Greg is depending on us-"

"Hang on, Molly just got in,"

"She did, and the sooner I solve this, the sooner we can get home."

"It's alright John," Molly said, standing in the doorway of 221b. "Knowing Sherlock, he'll have it taken care of in record time." He passed by the open doorway, pausing to squeeze her arm. He gave her an understanding smile, and she returned it.

Sherlock Holmes stood on the walk, hailing a cab. He looked back up at the flat, in the window stood Molly, waving them off, and he smiled in return. No, there was no woman in the world for Sherlock Holmes but Molly Hooper. Truth be told, some days were not the easiest, things easily went wrong, plans awry, and arguments ensued. But it didn't mean he loved her any less, and it certainly didn't mean he would stop being there when she needed him, or even when she didn't. The hard days made him strive all the more for the days that went _right_. After all, Sherlock never did tire of being needed, and he was beginning to understand the joys of being _wanted_ as well.

_Everything went wrong and the whole _

_day long I'd feel so blue. For the longest while, _

_I'd forget to smile, then I met you._

_Now that my blue days have passed, _

_Now that I've found you at last, _

_I'll be loving you always, with a love so true, always_

_When the things you plan need a helping hand, I_

_Will understand, always, always. _

_Days may not be fair, always_

_That's when I'll be there, always_

_Not just for an hour, not just for a day_

_Not just for a year, but always._


End file.
